Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) (2 page)

'Days?'

'Yes. Days.'

'The bitch. She told me three weeks.'

Her grin widened.' Perhaps she misread the instructions.'

'Perhaps she needs a thick ear.'

This was not very politically correct, but then who gives a fuck? Her grin narrowed somewhat. She told me to do my business into the plastic cup, and to then leave it on a small shelf outside the room where she would collect it and have it analysed to see how many swimmers I had. Then she left the room. I locked the door behind her, then checked that it really was locked — three times. Because there's something about masturbation: all men, and several women, do it, but it's a secret thing. You don't say to your wife that you're away upstairs for a wank; you wait until she's downstairs defrosting chicken cutlets or out getting her hair ruined. You don't wank into her favourite cup and then pop down and show it to her.' Look what I done!' It's a private thing between you and an old sock. But there I was in a private room in a private hospital with official approval to look at porn and masturbate.

Clinical.

Loveless.

Of course if you think this put me off, then you've got another thing coming.

Any
time, any place, anywhere. It's a man thing.

Women need soft light and candles.

Men need soft porn and five minutes.

I sat down on the sofa and undid my trousers. I lifted one of the porn mags. It was top-shelf stuff, but hardly hardcore. Basically, it was women with their legs spread. There are worse things in life. So I sprang into action.

You don't have to imagine this; it's probably better if you don't.

But I was sitting there looking at these heavily made-up women showing me their most private parts and thinking, What is a respectable time to spend masturbating before going back out cup in hand? If I spent three minutes they'd think I was a horn ball, or habitually premature. Thirty minutes, they'd also think I was a horn ball, or that I couldn't get it up. Was there a happy medium — say fifteen minutes? Ten? Twenty? Was there such a thing as a respectable wank-time? Should they have imposed a time-limit? I was turning the pages all this time. I came across, metaphorically speaking, a smutty crossword someone had taken the time to fill in. And then three pages later — well, make that five, because the last two pages were stuck together. Freshly stuck together. In fact, they were still damp. I Frisbee-ed the porn mag across the room.

Bollocks.

I glanced at my watch. I was six minutes in. Soon they'd start checking the clock. Making wisecracks. Maybe they had secret cameras to make sure I wasn't doing anything I shouldn't. A pervy-cam. I was sweating now. Losing interest. Christ. Maybe I was appearing live on the giant TV screen above Donegall Square. Maybe I was live on the Internet. Maybe half the world was laughing. Maybe Noel Edmonds or some other beardless wonder would stroll in and announce I was on
Candid Camera.

With my trousers around my ankles I shuffled across and checked that the door was locked again. Then I checked the light-fittings for hidden cameras. Nothing. But it didn't mean they weren't there.

Nine minutes, sitting there, half-mast.

Twelve minutes, even less.

Concentrate.

Concentrate? Since when did you have to concentrate on . . .

Jesus come on, it's all in a good cause.

I wonder how many games Liverpool need to win to be sure of European qualification?

Stanley Baxter did
not
star in
Zulu.

Fifteen minutes.

Stanley Baker.

They're really getting worried now. Soon the nurse is going to knock on the door and say, 'Is everything all right?'

Just coming.

Okay. Okay. Relax.
Relax.

Think about . . . think about sex, think about the best sex you ever had. No, the first sex you ever had. The wonder of it. The absolutely fantastic wonder of it. Even the first kiss. Who was that with? It was lying in the snow with a girl. Not Patricia. She was my first proper girlfriend, but there were other fumblings in the dark. That's better, that's definitely better. Imagine the excitement of that, of the first time, of discovering an entirely new, long-dreamed-of but undiscovered world. Like the Vikings landing in America. Like Armstrong setting foot on the moon. Like kissing a girl for the first time, like feeling her tongue in your mouth, tasting warm cider and burgeoning lust — definitely, this is the business — like squeezing your fingers under bra wires, expecting a mouse trap but getting warm skin, getting pulled close safe in the knowledge that she was as young and naïve and absolutely up for it as you, lying in snow but it could be on a beach, you're as hard as a rock, you're going to do it, you're really going to . . .

Ejaculate.

And I did.

There and then in the snow.

And there and then in the room.

'Fuck,' I said then, as she said, 'What? What's wrong?'

'Someone's coming.'

There was, and I had. But she never knew.

And now I'd come again, thinking back twenty-four years and it was wonderful then and it was wonderful now.

And then I remembered the cup.

I remembered that I'd forgotten the cup.

That I'd made a fucking mess everywhere and I'd forgotten the god-damn cup. What the hell was I supposed to do now?

Jesus Christ.

What sort of a bloody idiot . . .

God . . . Christ . . . I hobbled in my half-mast trousers to the bathroom and soaked a towel. I rubbed at my trousers, I rubbed at the seat, I rubbed at the floor. Christ. I looked at my watch — twenty-five minutes. I was getting into 'we'd better check on him, he might have had a coronary' territory. I rubbed and I rubbed and I rubbed until no one but a crack police forensics team or a moron could tell the difference. Thirty-two minutes.

What the hell was I supposed to do now?

I was forty years old.

I couldn't just produce another cupful like that.

It would take at least thirty-seven minutes, and probably a doze, then a bit of a walk and a ham sandwich.

I wasn't fucking Superman.

And even if I did produce another dribble, they'd be weak and tired, barely interested, forced out under sufferance, not the Gold Medal swimmers we needed to progress with the surrogacy. I'd be humiliated. My sperm count would hardly register. They'd fail their O-levels. They'd get a
must try harder
stamp from the nurse. The pretty nurse would be grinning so hard she'd split the top of her head off.

Bloody hell.

What was I going to tell Trish? Here for possibly the most important, relationship-defining day of our lives, when all I had to do was concentrate for five minutes, and look what I'd done, and look where I'd done it.

Christ.

Thirty-seven minutes.

Soon the SAS would come swinging through the windows to rescue me.

I would have to think of something.

Something
now.

A migraine.

A stroke.

The nurse grinning.

Christ.

I pulled up my trousers and hurried to the door. I unlocked it and peered into the corridor. It was empty. Directly across from me there was a shelf with a small door behind it where I was supposed to leave my sample. I heard footsteps and ducked back into the room, leaving the door open just enough to see a nurse — a different nurse — hurry past.

Patricia — I have good news, and I have bad news.

The good news is, ejaculation was no problem.

The bad news is, if you want to count it, you'll have to get down on your hands and knees.

What was I like?

I had always brought shame on my family — through no fault of my own, of course, except in cases of extreme stupidity — but this brought it to an entirely new level.

I had sworn on our most recent reconciliation to be honest with Patricia at all times.

That if I strayed, or put our house on a horse, or gave her tacky ornaments to Oxfam with instructions to smash them, then I could and would be brutally honest. But this? How could I tell her this without utterly humiliating myself? I wouldn't be able to hold my head up even in my last refuge, my own house. And even if she stuck with me, even if she swore never to tell a soul, it would get out there. These things always came out. She'd get drunk and tell my friends. And they'd all snigger into their cocktails and they'd tell their friends and it would soon evolve into an urban myth.

I peered out into the corridor again.

This time a male nurse was coming past. I had to do something. I had to do something quick. He was a big fella, six foot at least, squarely built. I hissed across at him, 'Hey, mate, c'mere a minute.'

He turned towards me. Close-cropped hair and small, inquisitive eyes. He came over.

'Listen,' I began, not really sure where I was going.' I'm in a bit of a hole. I'm . . . look, my son died . . . we're desperate to have another kid. We came here to get help . . . You know what this room is? The quiet room. You know what the quiet room is — of course you do. I've . . . Christ, look, mate I've had a bit of an accident, and I can't go back there and say . . . like, what do you say? I just can't go back and look like a total eejit. I was like wondering . . . do you know where I'm going? Do you understand what I'm saying?'

'No,' he said.

'Look, it's quite simple. I need you . . . I'd like you . . . Look, mate, no strings attached, I know it's kind of odd, I'm not a weirdo, I'm just really stuck. I'm too old for this, I can't just produce it like . . . I really need some help.'

'What sort of help?'

'I need you to come in here and wank into a cup.'

His eyes widened slightly, then narrowed again. I could almost hear the clogs turning in his brain. Or perhaps cogs. He glanced up and down the corridor, then moved slightly closer.

'What sort of a cup?'

'What?'

'What sort of a cup do you want me to wank into?'

'What do you mean? What the fuck does it matter?'

'You mean like a big cup, like a pint glass, or a wee one, like an egg cup?'

'What the fuck does it matter?!'

'I'd just like to know.'

'I'm inviting you in here to masturbate and you're worried about what sort of a cup you'll have to wank into? What sort of a fucking mental are you?'

'Please yourself, mate,' he said, and started to turn away.

'No! I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' He stopped.' Look — okay. Okay — it's a small plastic cup. Please. This is so important.'

He turned back.' How much?'

'How much? How the fuck do I know. A cupful? Half a cup?'

'No — I mean how much are you paying?'

'Paying?'

'I'm not going in there to wank into a cup for nothing.'

'Well — fuck, how much do you want?'

'A hundred.'

'Quid?'

'Yes.'

'Okay. All right. That seems fair.' I took out my wallet. Luckily, and rarely, I had enough.' Fifty now, and fifty when you deliver.'

'A hundred now.'

'What if you don't deliver?'

I'll work at it until I do.'

I looked at my watch. Forty-four minutes.

'All right — deal. Come on.'

I ushered him into the room. I showed him the bathroom and I picked up the porn mags.' Here,' I said, 'this might help.'

He held up a hand to refuse them.' That's not what I'm into.'

I nodded. He closed the door. He locked it. I gave him two minutes.

'Everything okay?' I said.

'Yes.'

'Are you going to be long?'

'Not if you shut up.'

'Okay. Fine. I'll . . . just sit over here.'

It would be okay, everything would be okay. I could explain it away to Trish. I was nervous. The antiseptic surroundings of the hospital. She would somehow perceive it to be a compliment to her that I was unable to do it without her being with me. It was only a sample they were looking for. It wasn't as if they were going to match it up with Patricia's eggs. It was just to check the sperm count. He would have a fine and healthy sperm count. It wasn't like he was some albino dwarf. He was a strapping big guy with normal sperm.

What was I even
thinking
of?

Christ.

I should crack the door open and toss him out of there for being such a pervert.

What sort of a guy goes into a room and wanks for money?

And what sort of a guy asks him to?

I buried my head in my hands.

From inside the bathroom, he said, 'Oh baby.'

I blushed. I really blushed.

He said, 'Oh,
baby
. . .'

I cleared my throat.

He said, 'Give it to me.'

Then he cranked up the volume, 'give it to me!' he bellowed.

Christ.

And then my mobile phone rang.

I pulled it out, fearing it was Trish. But I didn't recognise the number. I pressed the button. Before he, she or it could speak there came a:

'HARDER. HARDER.'

I swallowed and said, 'Hello?'

'Dan?'

'OOOOH YES!'

I cleared my throat.' Yes.'

'Dan, it's Davie.'

'OOH YES. YES. YES!'

I cleared my throat again.' Davie?'

'Yes, Davie.'

'Davie?'

'Davie,
Davie.'

'GIVE IT TO ME, GIVE IT TO ME HARD.'

'Davie Kincaid?'

'Yes, Davie Kincaid.'

'Davie Kincaid?
The
Davie Kincaid?'

'OOOOH YES!'

'Yes, Dan. How're you doin'?'

'I'm . . . fine. Davie Kincaid? But I haven't—'

'I know, Dan, it's donkey's years. But I had to call. As soon as I heard, I had to call.'

'OOH yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!'

'Dan, is this a bad time? There seems to be—'

'No, it's fine. We just . . . we have the painters in.'

'Are they having sex?'

'No. They're just . . . admiring their work. They're doing a mural, you see. But what do you mean "as soon as you heard"?'

'You haven't heard?'

'I don't know what I haven't heard, Davie. Davie Kincaid. My God.'

'He's dead.'

'Who's dead?'