Daring Dooz (The Implosion Trilogy (Book 2)) (8 page)

Chapter 16

Aubrey was
woken by Mrs Hathaway’s screams for help.

He stumbled
out of bed and reached the door, just in time to see her being bundled out of
the apartment by two large men in black overcoats.

Bloody
Charlie! thought Aubrey. He knew from experience that one of Charlie’s less
violent, but still unpleasant, traits was to rat on deals, usually within
minutes of any agreement being made.

‘Help me,
Aubrey!’ came a desperate cry from the corridor.

Aubrey
stood up straight and took a sharp intake of breath. This called for action.
And for Aubrey this was unknown territory. He rarely did anything off his own
bat. Usually, he had to be forced, threatened or blackmailed. Occasionally, he
was motivated to steal or lie for his own self-interest. But usually, on the
action front, he kept a low profile and even lower levels of activity.

But this
was different. Mrs Hathaway had put her neck on the line for him. Christ, she’d
even shoved two fingers up Charlie’s nose - something Aubrey wouldn't have
attempted without a battalion of SAS commandos backing him up.

He scurried
round the bedroom, collected his clothes, dressed, grabbed some money from her
handbag and ran out into the corridor. The lift wasn’t working, and the
continuing screams from the stairwell told him Tallulah was putting up a hell
of a fight.

Aubrey ran
down the staircase, stopping several times to get his breath back. Out on the
pavement, he saw her being bundled into a black cab. As it took off, he hailed
another cab and jumped in.

‘Follow
that cab,’ he shouted.

Aubrey was
completely unaware he’d just delivered a classic film line - one that Mick and
Jim would have given their eyeteeth to utter in a real live situation.

The cabbie
turned round. ‘You serious?’

‘’Course I
am,’ snapped Aubrey, ‘just follow that bloody cab!’

‘It’s just,
like, I’ve been a cabbie for 25 years, and nobody’s ever said that to me. I
feel like - you know - at last, I’m in a feature film.’

All Aubrey
could think about was getting Mrs Hathaway back in the apartment, safe and
sound. So he repeated the instruction with a considerable number of added
expletives and the cabbie shot off in hot pursuit.

Aubrey was
surprised to see it was late and getting dark. His sleep patterns had been
severely disrupted - probably because he was still recovering from the punch
bag battering, and now he wasn’t Charlie’s dogs-body, he was beginning to relax
more. He slept lots because he felt safe. Mrs Hathaway would protect him. Mrs
Hathaway knew how to beat people up. Mrs Hathaway had done the zero-sperm-count
deal.

But just
now, the only deal in town was terrifying. With Charlie, he’d been in rough
situations and in fear of his life on a daily basis, but he’d never, ever, done
anything like this. He was actually trying to help someone. It was crazy. It
was against all his better instincts, but he knew it had to be done.

They headed
east along the Embankment then took the A1261 before turned into a forgotten
part of London’s docklands - just beyond Canary Wharf and the other the
high-rise blocks.

Here,
gloomy soon-to-be-developed Victorian warehouses cast long black shadows over
deserted, wet, cobbled streets, lit by unforgiving sodium street lights.

The cab
containing Mrs Hathaway turned right into an empty street and pulled up.
Aubrey's cab followed.

‘Stop
here,’ said Aubrey, ‘and turn off your lights.’

Aubrey paid
the fare.

‘You
alright mate?’ asked the cab driver. ‘Yeah!’ said Aubrey, without looking at
him.

His focus
was on the cab, which had pulled up some hundred yards down the street.

‘Keep your
lights off, and reverse back round the corner.’

‘You got
it,’ said the cab driver, glad to be leaving what looked like a very dodgy
situation.

As the
cabbie quietly reversed, Aubrey moved towards the distant cab keeping in the
shadows, close to the wall. After a few paces, he saw Mrs Hathaway being
roughly moved from the cab to the building.

He took off
his shoes, dumped them in a doorway and began to run. This was not Aubrey at
all. The cab pulled off as he reached the door. It was made of heavy-duty
steel, but they’d left it open. He slipped through into God knows what.

The light
just inside the door was off. But when he looked up the stairwell, he could see
light and faintly hear Tallulah’s protestations.

Aubrey
thought fast. They’d probably come down and lock the door, once they’d got her where
they wanted.

He decided
to hide under the stairwell. He crouched down and backed into a dustbin which
squeaked and scratched. This was not a good place to be, but it was better than
running upstairs and confronting two big blokes, who were probably armed to the
teeth.

After a
couple of minutes, Aubrey heard footsteps. One of the men came down the stairs
switched on the light and took hold of the edge of the open door. This was
Aubrey’s chance. He dived out from his cover and shoved the big bloke in the
back. As you expect from a diminutive person like Aubrey, it wasn’t a big
shove, but it caused the man to stumble forward slightly into the street.

This was
it. Aubrey slammed the door shut, turned the key in the lock and ran up the
stairs as fast as his stockinged feet could carry him.

After three
flights, he saw a light coming from a small glass panel, high up on a wooden
door. He was gasping for breath, but he just managed to stand on tiptoe, twist
his head and get one eye level with the bottom of the glass panel. The room was
brightly lit and there was a table and two chairs. A tough-looking man wearing
a black overcoat was sitting on one of the chairs reading a newspaper. On the
table was a gun. Another door in the room, obviously led to somewhere else.
Perhaps that was where they’d put Mrs Hathaway?

So - this
was it,
again.

Without
even thinking, Aubrey knocked on the door, and opened it.

The man sat
upright, and put his newspaper over the gun.

‘Good
evening,’ said Aubrey.

The man
scowled, and didn't answer.

‘I’m the
Dockland’s Health and Safety Officer from the Dockland’s Heath and Safety
24-hour Dockland’s Health and Safety Patrol.’

Aubrey
flashed his Frith Street Erotic Dancing Club Card by way of proof.

The man’s
mouth hung open, and he started to break into a light, but rather cold sweat. Normally,
he would have lobbed the little scrote out of the window, without opening it.
But there was something about this voice that gave him an uncomfortable, almost
guilty, feeling. His massive muscles began to twitch and his mouth started to
dry.

The fact
was, Aubrey had reverted automatically to the only weapon he possessed - the
sinister, menacing, psychologically disturbing tones he’d perfected during his
10 years as a tax inspector for Her Majesty’s Government.

‘Now if you
could hand me that gun, I’ll just give it a Health and Safety check, then I’ll
be on my way.’

The man
reached under the newspaper and brought out the gun. He could have shot Aubrey
dead, and truth be told, he did consider it. But there was something about
Aubrey’s eyes. Sure, they were venomous and threatening, but they were also
calming. They seem to say, ‘just hand over the gun quietly and everything will
be alright and nothing bad will happen to you’.

The look
was a potent mixture of naked intimidation combined with all the trusting,
caring qualities you’d expect from an award-winning nurse. It had proved to be
highly effective when prising incriminating information, or paperwork, from businesses
ranging from corner shop owners to international corporations.

‘Go on,’
encouraged Aubrey, in soothing tones, ‘just hand it to me.’

The man
held on to the gun.

‘It won’t
take a second, then you can get on with whatever you’re doing, and have a
lovely evening.’

Aubrey didn't
take his eyes off the man, and turned the look up to 11.

Transfixed
by the intensity of the gaze, the man slowly held out the gun.

‘Just a few
more inches and everything will be fine,’ said Aubrey softly.

The man, by
now completely mesmerised, gently handed the gun to Aubrey.

The change
was immediate.

‘OK, shit
face,’ snarled Aubrey, ‘tits on the tarmac, now, before I blow your bollocks
off.’

The man did
what he was told.

Keeping the
gun trained on the man, Aubrey backed up to the door and opened it. Inside was
Mrs Hathaway gagged and duct-taped to a chair. He undid the gag.

‘Oh
Aubrey,’ she cried.

He unwound
the duct tape, and she stood up. Before anything could be said, they heard gunshots
coming from three storeys below. Bloke number two had dealt with the lock and
would no doubt be on his way.

‘Quick,’ hissed
Aubrey. ‘Time to go.’

He spun
round and kicked at a large ventilation grill about three feet off the floor. To
his surprise, after a few kicks, it fell off.

He helped her
into the void.

‘It's got
to be better than hangin’ around ‘ere.’

She
disappeared into the shaft, and Aubrey climbed in after her, still keeping his
gun on the prostrate bloke number one. As he backed away down the shaft, he
heard Mrs Hathaway scream. A few more shuffles backwards and Aubrey was also
screaming at the top of his lungs.

The
ventilation shaft had dropped away suddenly and he was sliding down at an
alarming rate. It was pitch black, very steep and molar-crunchingly bumpy.
Whenever he bounced, he banged his head on the top of the duct and smacked back
down, at an even higher speed.

Just when
he thought his extremities couldn't stand it any more, the pain disappeared.
For a few seconds, there was just a whistling noise in his ears. This stopped
immediately as he hit the mud bank, right next to an obviously distressed Mrs
Hathaway.

Once he’d
checked his legs hadn't snapped off, Aubrey looked around and tried to take
stock of the situation. The mud bank was on the side of the River Thames. In
the distance, he could clearly see the lights of Canary Wharf, and beyond that,
London Bridge and the Shard.

Despite the
terrifying ventilator shaft experience, Aubrey was elated. They’d escaped. And
he, Aubrey Brown, had rescued Mrs Hathaway, using a mixture of grit,
determination and government-department-inspired cunning.

He still
had the gun, and if anyone came hurtling out of the shaft, he’d whack them
before they hit the mud.

This
elation was extremely short-lived, as he realised they were both sinking
rapidly. He tried to lift his knees and step up, but sank lower. This was not
going well.

Despite all
his efforts, the mud was soon up to his chest. He twisted himself round to face
Mrs Hathaway, but this made him sink even faster. She held out her arms to him,
but the extra desperate pressure on his shoulders meant that, within seconds,
just his neck and head were above the mud.

Their lips
were only inches away. Her bright blue eyes were as kind and as beautiful as
ever, and she looked as if she wanted to kiss him. Her mouth moved, her lips
trembled, but there was no sound. He could feel the mud on his chin. This was
it. He couldn't die without telling her.

‘I love
you!’ he cried at the top of his voice. ‘I love you!’

‘Don’t
worry,’ said Mrs Hathaway, ‘I’ll just get rid of this apple puree and custard,
and everything will be alright.’

‘What?’
mumbled Aubrey.

‘I told you
not to have extra pudding so late at night. Now you’ve done a little midnight
burp and here it is back again, all over your face.’

‘Oh right,’
said Aubrey, quietly.

He could
feel his face and chin being sponged.

‘Best to
get some rest now,’ said Mrs Hathaway.

Aubrey did
what he was told - snuggling down with his face as clean and wholesome as his
freshly laundered pillow.

As she took
the sponge back into her kitchen, Mrs Hathaway did a double Ali shuffle, with
twirl. She knew that Aubrey had been fast asleep when he twice shouted ‘I love
you’ - but as far as she was concerned, it was a big step in the right
direction.

Chapter 17

Saturday
was treat day. No training. No worrying about Aubrey. Nothing. All she had to
do was slip into her black
GiMoto
leathers, take the
short trip to the basement garage and she was away.

The dark
blue
Kawasaki ZX 1000
purred gently towards the opening roller doors. The bike had been her pride
and joy, ever since she won it on a TV quiz show where the points she amassed
on her specialist topic
Toxic cleaning
materials through the ages
had yet to be beaten.

The morning
was bright and fresh. The traffic in Greek Street was light. Mrs Hathaway
looked up and could see blue patches of sky between the clouds. She breathed in
deeply. This was going to be a good day.

*

Jimmy
Chisholm also thought it would be a good day, as he was planning to rob a bank.

In fact,
his plan was already taking shape. Everything was going like clockwork, apart
from the hiccup last night when Trev, his preferred wheelman, phoned in
suffering from chronic depression following a visit to the local STI clinic.

Jimmy was
as encouraging as he could be.

‘Look,
Trev, a good dose never done me any ‘arm. When I was a lad, it sort of, like, a
right of passage - if you’ll excuse the expression. I was down there every
couple of months. Kid you not, I had me own seat and was on first name terms
with the pox doctor’s auntie. Nowadays, it’s just a quick shot of gunk and
you’re right as rain. In my day, they got the old ‘umbrella needle’
ran it up your crank, opened it up, then pulled it
out to rip the puss and stuff out of your dick.’

On the other end of
the line, there was moan followed by a dull thud. It became obvious Trev would
not be listening to any more encouragement, that night.

 
There followed a series of frantic phone
calls, but by midnight, Jimmy had secured the services of Eddie the Surf.

It had
always perplexed Jimmy why so many of his criminal associates gave themselves
names like Eddie the Surf, Rodney the Razor, Sid the Spiderman - it was
ridiculous. There was once a safecracker called Leonardo the Vinci.

Jimmy was
Jimmy Chisholm, and that suited him fine. Unless, of course, if he got caught,
then he’d immediately use any one of a vast number of aliases to implicate
someone else. And, as there is no honour among thieves, that list now included
Eddie the Surf.

Eddie was a
part-time heavy-metal drummer, part-time porno-actor and part-time wheelman -
and as they drove round the North Circular Road, he seemed to get the gist of
Jimmy’s plans.

Not that
there was a lot of gist to get. Jimmy’s plans were always dead simple. Not for
him the meticulous planning of Reservoir Dogs or The Italian Job. Jimmy just
pulled his beret down over his eyes and picked a bank from the yellow pages
using a pin. His flawed logic was that if he didn’t know where he was going to
rob, neither would the bank. Of course, he ‘cased’ the joint, usually a week
before. But, really, all Jimmy liked was demanding the money, running out with
the cash and escaping. And that was where Eddie the Surf came in.

Eddie’s big
advantage was he didn't look like a criminal. He looked like an unbelievably
handsome, tanned surfer boy, with bright green eyes and long, permed, dyed
blond hair. Jimmy also liked the fact that Eddie had no vehicle tax or
insurance, so if they were randomly stopped by the cops, there was a good
chance they’d concentrate of Eddie’s lack of paperwork, rather than the stash
of cash in the boot.

Jimmy’s
lackadaisical approach to crime shouldn’t make you think he wasn’t a dangerous
man. He was
very
dangerous. He always
carried a gun. And was prepared to use it. He’d once been recommended as a
hit-man and enforcer for Chuck the Fuck - there was that ‘the’ thing again -
but Vlad and Vic had been up for it too, and, given their worldwide reputation
as highly professional, sadistic psychopaths, there was no way he could
compete. He didn't even get to the interview stage.

Jimmy was a
bit worried, because he’s heard down the pub that Eddie could be unreliable -
turning up at gigs without his drums, presenting himself at porno-shoots with
brewer’s droop, or dropping his car keys down the drain just before a job. But
needs must, and anyway, all he had to do was drop Jimmy off at 10.15, drive
round the block and pick him up, ten minutes later, when he had the loot.

Jimmy’s pin
had landed on the Allied Lion Bank, in Burnt Oak Highway, Enfield. Saturday
morning, bound to have lots of cash for punters doing their shopping. Lovely.

Eddie
dropped Jimmy right outside the bank, bang on 10.15. He sauntered in and spent
a few minutes, checking the situation. While he was in mid-check, he started
reading some of the bank’s promotional leaflets that, for a few moments, made
him think that if he wanted to rob people blind, he was in the wrong business. He
waited until there were virtually no customers at the tills. An experienced
guess said three minutes for the cashiers to hand over all the money. And he
was right.

‘Everybody
down on the floor, now!’ he shouted. This is a robbery. This gun is loaded.
Empty them tills into this bag.’

Everyone
did what they were told - and that was that.

With his
sports bag loaded with notes, Jimmy dived back into the street, and ran to the
edge of the pavement. He stopped and looked up and down the road, but there was
no sign of Eddie.

In fact,
there was never going to be any sign of Eddie. As he was parked up round the
corner waiting for the agreed pick-up time, he was approached by an off-duty
talent scout for Estrange & York the up-market clothing retail chain, and
asked if he’d like to be a retail assistant.

It sounded
good. Posh shop. Good money. Loads of girls with wealthy daddies. And confirmation
from an international fashion house that he was a really good-looking guy. It
was much classier, better paid, and far less dangerous than hanging around
waiting to pick up second-rate bank robbers. He asked the scout to jump in, and
off they went to discuss terms at Estrange & York’s international
headquarters in Bond Street.

It was only
halfway through the interview that Eddie realised how long he’d been chatting,
and what the unpleasant, if not grisly, if not terminal, consequences might be.
He quickly steered the interview round to talking about potential work in
Estrange & York’s Melbourne shops, and was considerably relieved to find
out that that wouldn’t be a problem.

Outside the
bank, Jimmy was having a
lot
of
problems. Fucking Eddie was probably still gazing at himself in the fucking
vanity mirror, and some fucking graduate trainee in the bank had set off the
fucking security alarm.

The sports
bag was heavy with cash, not to mention the tracker device palmed in with the
notes by a little cashier girl who even managed to feign tears while she was
doing it. No million pound bonus for her next year.

Jimmy
wasn’t too fit, and certainly wouldn’t get far with all that weight. He was
just going to have to stand there until the sodding firearms squad came to
collect him.

There was a
flash of sheet lightening from what appeared to be a clear blue sky. At first, Jimmy
thought they’d sent a helicopter with a really bright searchlight. But that was
it - no thunder clouds, no rain - nothing. To keep himself occupied while he
waited, Jimmy half-heartedly waved his gun around and shouted at passers-by to
lie on the ground. They did.

Then,
suddenly, the cavalry came over the hill. Or to be more precise, a lone motorcyclist
came over the hill. Jimmy ran into the road, pointed his gun at the biker,

‘Stop or
you're fuckin’ dead!’ he shouted.

The
motorcyclist screeched to a halt, got off and parked the bike on its stand. As
he came nearer, Jimmy could see this was a ‘cavalry plus’ situation. His
worries really
were
over.

‘Gimme the
bike, you scrawny old tart.’

‘What?’
shouted Mrs Hathaway - the siren really was
very
loud.

‘Give - me -
the - motor - bike - you - scrawny - old - tart,’ bawled Jimmy, leaving a one
second gap between each word.

‘Of
course,’ she shouted back, ‘help yourself.’

He couldn't
believe his luck. In ten minutes, he’d be miles away, and could probably get a
few hundred quid for the bike, into the bargain. Plus the alarm batteries
seemed to have run down, he could think clearly at last.

Jimmy moved
closer and waved the gun in her face.

‘And the
helmet.’

‘Of
course,’ said Mrs Hathaway, politely.

As she
raised her hands to undo her helmet, she shot out a leg and kicked the stand
away. The bike fell heavily onto Jimmy’s legs.

‘Shit!’ he
shouted, and glanced down to see the damage.

That was
all she needed. A double-handed grip and twist and he dropped the gun.
Unfortunately, as it landed, it went off and shot away a considerable part of
the groin of a stone cherubim carved above the bank’s door. The prostrate
pedestrians moved even closer to the pavement.

A quick
Kyusho pressure point
slap to the side of the neck and he was down and,
more or less, out. Mrs Hathaway didn't often get cross, but this man had really
upset her.

She had
been planning a lovely ride up the M1, then a cut across country to Oxford,
perhaps stopping for tea and buttered scones by the
Magdalen Bridge Boathouse
, even a trip on the Cherwell, then back to
London down the M40 - and this horrible little man had ruined everything. Plus
he’d frightened the bank staff and a lot of people who were out just doing
their Saturday morning shopping.
And
her lovely bike was badly scratched where it bounced off Jimmy’s kneecaps onto
the kerb.

She grabbed
the back of Jimmy’s neck with one hand and pulled him upright. Then, clasping
him firmly by the crutch with the other hand, turned him over and stuffed him,
vertically, head first, into a rather nicely designed litter bin made from
perforated brushed steel, with a rolled aluminium top.

The bin had
actually won an EU award for contemporary street furniture design, against
stiff competition from specialists in other member states. The award was made
at a gala dinner at the Savoy, and had been reported in the local papers, and
was the subject of a 4-page spread in
Urban
Litterbin Monthly
. Unfortunately, the designers had not anticipated the bin
being used to accommodate discarded bank robbers, and, as Jimmy was plunged
into its murky depths, there were two nasty cracks as his collarbones broke.

 
Mrs Hathaway opened the sports bag and
addressed Jimmy’s legs, which had started to thrash about wildly.

‘I suppose
you’ve just robbed that bank?’

‘Fuck off,’
came the echoey reply.

‘I’ll take
that as a ‘Yes.’’

‘Fuck off.’

‘I heard
you the first time,’ she said and gave the bin a good kick. Jimmy screamed. She
kicked the bin again with similar ear-splitting results. She really was
very
cross.

During this
conversation, the pedestrians had started to get to their feet. She picked up
the gun with her handkerchief, switched on the safety catch, put it in the
sports bag, and strode into the bank. There was spontaneous and very
enthusiastic applause from the crowd. Inside, the bank, staff and customers
were still lying quietly on the floor.

‘Everything’s
fine,’ said Mrs Hathaway. ‘He’s waiting for the police to come and collect
him.’

She placed
the bag on the counter.

‘Here’s
your money. Be careful, there’s a loaded revolver inside.’

And with
that, she turned and walked back into the sunshine.

Outside,
the crowd had grown. News travels fast in Enfield. There was loud applause and
cheers.

She walked
through the crowd. People were shouting ‘Well done’ and slapping her on the
back. A couple of men tried to lift her up on their shoulders, but she gave
them a stern look. They, in turn, looked at Jimmy’s legs sticking out of the
bin, and decided it would be better to let her walk to the bike. She put on her
helmet, swung her leg over the dream machine, waved modestly to the people, and
rode away. No point in hanging around; Saturday was treat day.

Seconds after
she left the scene, there was more sheet lightening and the sound of an
approaching police siren signalling the start of the due process of law. Although,
as it turned out, the fire brigade had to be called and spent an hour cutting
Jimmy free, before the legislative wheels could really be set in motion.

*

While
people had cheered Mrs Hathaway, all in all, the whole thing had been a
terrifying experience - for the bank staff, the bank customers and for the
people walking by. Everyone was genuinely shocked that this type of insanity
could happen on a London street in broad daylight.