Daring Dooz (The Implosion Trilogy (Book 2))

by Stan Arnold

  ‘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 H
athaway’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.’

  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.