Daring Dooz (The Implosion Trilogy (Book 2)) (3 page)

Chapter 4

The good news was that
Aubrey was alive. The bad news was that he had two heavily bruised eyes, both
of which seemed like pin pricks focussed on something about 300 yards away.

Mrs Hathaway pulled the zip
down a few more inches to reveal Aubrey’s nose and mouth. His nose had
disappeared somewhere into his face and his mouth was purple and swollen with
quite a lot of blood oozing from multiple cuts to his lips. It also seemed to
have been moved half way up his right cheek - in fact, it didn't much look like
a mouth at all. But most importantly, it spoke.

‘I’d
all-ryfft’

Mrs Hathaway understood
this to mean ‘I’m alright’ and was, consequently, extremely relieved. She
pulled the zip right down in one quick movement. Unfortunately, Aubrey’s
assessment of his physical condition was way off the mark - the equivalent of
Robert Shaw shouting to Roy Scheider, ‘Don't worry mate, it's only a scratch!’
as Jaws dragged him off the back of the Orca.

As soon as the zip was
fully open, Aubrey’s eyes rolled up into his head, he lost what consciousness
he had, and fell forward out of the punch bag. Only lightning-fast reactions
enabled Mrs Hathaway to flick out her foot and stop Aubrey’s head smacking into
the parquet floor.

For a brief moment, she
froze. Aubrey’s battered head rested on her ring boot, but his feet were still
stuck in the bag. It was not the time for the Avon lady to call. But she made
decisions quickly. Possibly this was due to the many unarmed combat,
distance-learning projects she’d passed with flying colours. She grabbed Aubrey
round the waist, turned him upright and stared into where his eyes had been.

‘Aubrey?
This is Mrs Hathaway - do you recognise me?’

‘Plead
to meed you!’ said Aubrey, politely, but to no one in particular.

More blood flowed from his
mouth and his left nostril popped out from his face and blew a large, green
bubble.

‘I
think you need looking after,’ she said, gently.

‘Danks,’ said Aubrey, and
the green bubble burst, making his face look even more of a mess.

‘Come with me,’ she said,
turning towards the bathroom.

She manoeuvred Aubrey round
to face in the right direction. Then held his hand and sighed. What was
happening? This moderately disgusting little man, a fugitive from what was
going to be some pretty rough justice, had knocked on her door. And within a
few minutes, she had begun to feel like a young girl again. She had a spring in
her step, and was certainly a little breathless. She turned to look at herself
in her nice new full-length mirror - from Ikea’s Spunksplat range - and had to
admit that she looked more than a little flushed. Sure, her pink complexion
might be because she had just pulverised one of the world’s top crime syndicate
enforcers in three seconds flat. But she was prepared to think it just might be
because there were signs of an ever-so-tiny bond, who knows, an ever-so-tiny bond
with a romantic tinge, growing between the two of them.

She breathed deeply,
although anyone watching would have said it was a sigh of contentment. As she
clasped Aubrey’s hand tightly and looked towards the bathroom door, her head
began to fill with images - a bit hazy, but, nevertheless, they definitely
were
images. Images of a future. A
future so different from her past. A future shared. A future with a man she
could love and protect. A man she could depend on.

Unfortunately, as she took
her first step, Aubrey’s spindly legs buckled and he passed out again. This
time, his head
did
hit the parquet
floor. But so transfixed was Mrs Hathaway by the pastel images that flowed like
sweet music through her brain, the sickening noise of cranial impact on polished
mahogany didn't even register. She stared straight ahead, held his hand tighter
and, with steady steps, and a faint, far-away smile, dragged his limp, bleeding
body across to its appointment with her recently reconditioned geyser.

*

Mrs Hathaway’s bathroom was
not designed to treat someone who had just had the living daylights beaten out
of him. In fact, it was designed to envelop her in an environment she could
only dream of, and certainly never afford. If you ignored the plastic avocado
bath and 1930’s black and white tiles, the rest was pure fantasy. The walls
were completely covered with a photographic image of a coral island - a
turquoise lagoon surrounded by palm trees, a white sand beach, with a little
wooden pier with protruding posts leading to a beach bar covered in palm fronds
- and everything bathed in bright tropical sunlight. There were even two
seagulls doing something on the beach bar roof. The other bathroom wall was
painted sky blue and decorated with shells, ceramic models of fish, glass
floats in nets and a collection of old compasses collected over the years from
the Portobello Road market.

‘What
do you think?’ she asked Aubrey.

It was only then that she
realised Aubrey was out like a light, and deeply ensconced in his own fantasy
world. An unpleasant, very scary world, where it was perpetually pitch black,
and the only thing that happened was you got punched hard, lots of times.

She sat him up on her
favourite, pink and gold Lloyd Loom chair, and thought about what to do. He was
still unconscious, but the bleeding was less profuse. However, his white shirt
with the sweet, crumpled collar and his oversized, pinstriped business suit
were covered in the stuff.

She ran the bath, and the
recently reconditioned geyser performed admirably, apart from the odd bang. She
removed Aubrey’s bloodstained jacket, shirt and tie. It was then that she had
her first shock. She hadn't seen a lot of men naked, but even without an
in-depth knowledge of the male form, she rapidly came to the conclusion that Aubrey’s
body must be one of the most nauseating sights on the planet.

His skin was very white,
apart from the bloodstains, and seemed too big for him. At various places, it
hung over itself in little triangular folds. Close to each fold, groups of
three or four thick, jet-black hairs sprouted out for about an inch. His
nipples were as pale as the rest of him, so unless you got really close, which
she simply hadn't the nerve to do, he appeared to have no nipples at all. A few
more thick black hairs grew out of his navel, which had stretched downwards
like the bags under old W H Auden’s eyes.

This was going to take some
overcoming, she thought. The pastel images and sweet music were fading fast.
Must be practical. The poor, bloodstained man must be cleaned up. The bath was
ready and full of bubbles. So off with his trousers - and off they came. It was
from this point that things began to get a little strange.

Aubrey was wearing orange
and brown striped briefs which looked as though they had originally been purchased
from a 1970’s mail order catalogue, before finding their way to a job lot of
rags at a down-market car boot sale. The strange thing was that the briefs were
a very odd shape - as though he was using them to store some extra bulky
object.

Nevertheless, this was not
the time for idle thoughts. She averted her eyes, and in one swift movement,
whipped off his briefs and held him over the bath. Before she could lower him
into the suds, there was a strange splash - as though something heavy had
dropped into the water in advance of his body. But, as she’d already told
herself, this was not the time for idle thoughts. She lowered him into the
foam, picked up a sponge and started cleaning the blood from his face. She
checked his teeth were all still there. They were, but they were also nicotine
stained - humph!
That
would have to
stop.

If she ignored the fact
that he had just been beaten to within an inch of his life, he had quite a
sweet, innocent, child-like face and, by deliberately not looking at the deathly
pallor of his strangely hairy body, she started to warm to him again. She
poured soapy water over him and, even though he was still unconscious, he
started to look a little more like someone who wasn’t about to die.

Mrs Hathaway was a cleaning
lady
par excellence
, and she was
renowned for doing a thorough job. She left no stone unturned, no crevice
uninspected - and Aubrey was to be no exception. She turned her attention to
Aubrey’s skinny white legs, and it was as she did so, she caught sight of it.

Chapter 5

When Mrs Hathaway had been
doing her Greco-Roman wrestling course some years back, the handbook
accompanying the videos had contained a photograph of the replica of
Michelangelo’s statue of David in
the
Palazzo Echo
in
Florence
.

Even though her main interest was the
successful administering of arm drags, bear hugs, headlocks and the supple
throw, she couldn't help noticing two things.

One: David had the most beautiful body she’d
ever seen.

Two: he had an exceptionally tiny male
organ.

As she looked down into the suds, she saw
what could only be described as a twisted form of reverse
doppelgänger
. There was no doubt in her mind that Aubrey had the world’s ugliest
body, but he also had, and somehow she knew it had to be true, the world’s
largest, longest, thickest
penis.
There were no other words to describe it. It lay there between his scrawny,
ultra-white legs, heavy and brooding, like a World War II U-boat in its
concrete pen.

She staggered back in amazement and sat down
in the Lloyd Loom to get her breathing under control. After a couple of
minutes, she plucked up the courage to have another look. It hadn't gone away.

No one had banged out secret instructions on
the old Enigma machine ordering it off to patrol the North Atlantic. It was
just lying there, presumably, waiting to be serviced.

She had to be realistic. When Aubrey came
round, she knew from her limited experience of men, that he could leave at the slightest
opportunity. And if he did, no one would believe what she had seen - not that
she had anyone to tell.

Still, she felt this was a momentous
occasion and, throwing aside the decorum which had ruled most of her life, she
whipped round to her bedside table, grabbed her sewing tape and measured
Das Boot
. She also took photographs with
her mobile phone.

Then, feeling thoroughly ashamed, but happy
in an uncomfortable sort of way, she sat back in the Lloyd Loom and
contemplated the immediate future.

First thing was to get Aubrey and his appendage
out of the bath and into a big warm dressing gown. But as she bent down to lift
him out, she had another shock.

The bubbles were disappearing fast, and she
could clearly see the letters ESONI through the foam. Aubrey had had his
mega-adornment tattooed. From a typesetting course she did just before it
became obsolete, she recognised the typeface as Modena, but what did ESONI
stand for?

Even stranger, it wasn’t tattooed along the
length so it could be read from the side. It was tattooed with the letters
going across his member, so it could be read from the pointy end, with the ‘E’
nearest his body and the ‘I’ nearest the observer.

She left him in the bath for a minute,
grabbed her laptop and Googled ESONI, fearing she might find it was a terrorist
organisation or something equally dreadful, but she needn’t have worried -
there was nothing.

Well, whatever ESONI was, it was decorating
a man who had been badly assaulted and was in need of some TLC. She lifted
Aubrey out of the bath, laid him on a towel on the floor and, trying not to
look at his body, patted him down until he was dry.

She carried him to her bed, carefully
avoiding damaging any bits that were hanging down, and popped him between the
sheets. He looked totally wrecked, totally unconscious, but extremely clean.

Having closed the bedroom door, she pulled
up her favourite, wing-backed chair, unlaced and kicked off her ring boots,
made herself comfy, picked up her knitting and, after ten minutes or so, began
to relax.

It had been quite a morning. She’d taught a
leading international gangster a lesson he wouldn't forget, she’d just
successfully completed a pattern involving
double increases and left and right-facing double decreases in shaker
stitch, and sleeping peacefully in her bed was a well-sponged little man with
the world’s largest penis. What excitement, she wondered, would the afternoon
hold?

And thinking
these wonderings, Mrs Hathaway gradually dozed off to sleep.

She was woken from some truly spectacular
dreams about three hours later, by a loud knocking on her door and a high voice
which said, ‘
Hello,
this is the maintenance lady, I need to check your electricity supply.’

Chapter 6

The V-twins
thought at the speed at which light travels in a dark room, with the bulb
switched off.

The fact that
Aubrey had accidently given Mick and Jim 10-minute’s advance warning of their
visit only became obvious when Charlie Sumkins pointed it out while they were
giving him an account of their Implosion Productions exploits.

Mick and
Jim's escape meant Charlie was cross. Charlie Sumkins being cross was, usually,
the last thing most people ever saw.

Vlad was
desperately thinking of any mitigating actions which might calm Charlie down,
but wisely chose not to mention they’d found sod all at Mrs Hathaway’s, and
that Vic had been severely smacked about by a skinny, sixty-year-old bird.

Their visit
to Implosion Productions had been meant to go like clockwork. They would
introduce themselves politely, then give Mick and Jim a good slapping followed
by an extended demonstration of the range of serrated compression screws, vices
and electrical stimulation equipment they carried in their suitcase.

They were
professionals. They had even been discussing the purchase of a new suitcase.
The bloodstains on their current one, although masked by a rather fetching
Royal Stewart tartan design, were starting
to become noticeable. This generated strange looks from passers-by in the
streets, immediately put victims on guard, and, with all that DNA crap, you
couldn't be too careful.

As
professionals, they also took pride in their ability to plan the event. If Mick
and Jim’s faces had still been recognisable after the slapping, it was screws
for Mick and electrics for Jim. But you can't get a coconut every time. Mick
and Jim had done a runner - so they were forced to trash the remaining office
equipment, mainly as a way of lifting their spirits.

Unfortunately,
the interrogation also revealed that the Implosion Productions office was let
fully furnished, and all the equipment they trashed belonged to Charlie.

To make
things even worse, Vic had lifted the office’s stimulating photograph of Bette
Midler in a tight-fitting ruched dress.

‘That was my
favourite,’ said Charlie, with a nasty sneer.

Vlad and Vic
were dumb, but not dumb enough to ask whether he meant the photograph or the
dress.

Aspersions
were cast as to the use Vic might make of the photograph, and it was made quite
clear what would happen if those aspersions were realised. From memory,
Charlie’s proposed retribution included a bacon slicer.

However, Lady
Luck must have been smiling, or at least smirking, and they found themselves back
outside Charlie’s office door, still alive. They had to find Mick and Jim and
quick, so they decided on a planning meeting at their favourite pub, The Dead
Dog.

The visit to
the cleaning lady’s apartment had given Vlad another problem. Since Vic’s four
rapid encounters with Mrs Hathaway’s Cleto Reyes, he had not been himself at
all.

By way of
starting the planning meeting, Vlad put some tunes on the Dead Dog’s jukebox.
Vic stared at the ceiling and asked where the noise was coming from. Vlad
didn't tell him and Vic seemed happy not to know.

Vlad ordered his usual large brandy with
three vodka chasers, while Vic asked for a Slimline tonic with half a slice of
lemon and no ice.

When Brenda,
the fully cleavaged-up barmaid, leaned over their table to serve their drinks,
Vic didn't give it his usual, ‘Fuck me, darlin’ what a great pair of tits!’ He
just said, ‘Thank you Brenda,’ in the quietest of whispers.

Time for some
action. Vlad poured the vodkas into the brandy and drained the glass in one. He
dragged Vic outside, flagged a cab, and five minutes later, they were at the
Accident and Emergency section of the local hospital.

The nurse in
charge, who in a previous era would have respectfully been called a matron,
marched up to them, folded her arms across her ample chest and, with a degree
of irritation, got straight to the point.

‘Hmm! What
are you two doing here? All we ever see here are the results of your handy
work. Not that we see much of the poor sods, they’re usually straight through
into theatre.’

‘No, no, nurse,’ said Vlad trying to look as innocent as possible
‘that’s just a rumour.’

She gave him a hard look. So he cut the crap. ‘I reckon Vic’s got
concussed.’

‘Best news
I’ve had all day,’ said the nurse, ‘unless it turns out to be permanent brain
damage, in which case, I’ll be throwing a party tonight.’

Vlad had
clocked how GBH got you 10 hours of emptying community rubbish bins, while a
text that offended someone got you banged up big time. So he countered with,
‘If you texted that party stuff, you could get six years.’

‘And it would be worth every minute of it,’ replied the nurse.

Vlad could see he was losing, so he returned to his medical theme.

‘Vic got a real clouting, so what you gonna do?’

‘OK,’ said the nurse, turning to Vic and looking into his eyes. ‘How
many fingers am I holding up?’

‘Three.’ answered Vic correctly.

‘And are you bleeding from anywhere?’

‘’Course I am. I’m bleedin’ from Hackney,’ said Vic, ‘but what's that
got to do with anythin’, you stupid old tart?’

They spent an
hour sitting on plastic chairs waiting for a consultant. Vic happily watched
the hands of the clock go round, while Vlad flicked through an enormous pile of
Hello
magazines looking for potential
kidnap victims.

This
delightful scenario was broken only by a call from Charlie saying he now wanted
them to find Aubrey, as well as Mick and Jim. This was bad news, and made it
more important than ever to get Vic sorted.

Eventually,
the consultant called them in, did a few checks, and announced that Vic only
had mild concussion.

‘It seems
worse than it is,’ said the consultant, ‘because, from looking at his medical
records and various tests over the years, he seems to exhibit all the signs of
concussion when he’s in his normal waking state.’

‘You mean he goes round actin’ like a tit?’ said Vlad.

‘Correct,’
said the consultant. ‘But he’ll be back to where he was - eventually. My advice
is no sex and no alcohol for two months, and don't forget use this DIY kit to
give him a carbolic enema six times a day.’

As they made
for the A&E’s automatic sliding doors, Vlad turned and called out, ‘Hey
doc, thanks. If you’re ever in the Dead Dog, mention my name and it’s free
drinks all night!’

The
consultant and the nurse waved them goodbye. As soon as Vlad and Vic had
disappeared into the car park, the consultant removed his white coat and
changed back into his hospital porter’s overalls.

‘How did I do?’ he asked the nurse, handing back the stethoscope.

‘Fucking
brilliant,’ replied the angel of mercy. ‘Absolutely fucking brilliant.’