Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) (25 page)

No — I couldn't just walk.

I would tell him I'd had enough. He would understand. And even if he didn't, what was he going to do? Besides, it probably made more sense to travel separately. And to dump the Land Cruiser. Yes. Good. Tell him. Tell him
now
while he's in a good mood about his date with Dr Cortez. I stood up and was just starting to climb down from the rock when I noticed a dolphin bobbing in the water a hundred yards away.

Aww, I thought, you don't often see them this close to land.

And then I saw that it wasn't a dolphin, but a human, and not just a human, but a human woman without arms.

Michelle.

Michelle.

She seemed to be looking right at me. I raised a hand and waved. She raised a flipper. She began to move back towards the beach. Her flippers were moving, but they were so tiny they didn't make much impression on the water; it was her legs that were driving her at remarkable speed through the water.

I walked down to the edge to meet her.

'Hiya,' I said.

'Hiya, Dan Starkey.' I blushed. She remembered my name. And then I blushed again as she stood up. She was naked.

I mean,
completely
naked.

She smiled. My heart galloped. She was like a blonde white Halle Berry but with fewer arms.

'What's wrong?' she purred. 'Haven't you seen a naked woman before?'

'No,' I said. And then: 'Yes.'

Michelle had a T-shirt, shorts and a towel secreted behind some rocks just a few yards further along from where I'd been sitting. She sat down beside the T-shirt then lifted it with her toes. She leaned forward and pulled the T-shirt effortlessly over her head. It was, I thought, an amazing feat of physical dexterity and I nodded with the kind of appreciation I normally reserve for people who can change light bulbs or wire a plug. She probably did similar things a hundred times a day. She was probably used to clots like me giving her patronising looks. Although possibly she confused my patronising look for the one I adopt when looking at wet breasts through a white T-shirt. Sometimes only an expert can tell the difference. It was a baggy T-shirt. She didn't feel the need to put her shorts on. Not yet. Perhaps
that
feat of amazing physical dexterity would have entailed her revealing more of herself to me than she intended. Or maybe she wanted to sit there with her pants off. Either way, it was somewhat disconcerting.

I sat beside her on another rock.

She said, 'Are you married, Dan Starkey?'

'No,' I said. 'Are you?'

'What do you think?'

'I don't know what I think. You don't look old enough.'

She smiled. 'Married twice, divorced twice, and I'll be twenty-one next month.'

'Happy birthday,' I said. 'What went wrong?'

'What do you think?'

'It's a lovely day, Michelle, and you're asking me to do an awful lot of thinking.' I made a show of sitting like
The Thinker.
She giggled. It was a nice giggle. Like soft waves on a moonlit beach. Although the sun was out.

'I hardly know you,' I went on. 'You're probably expecting me to say they left you because they couldn't cope with your arms. Or lack of therein. But I think part of the reason you asked is because the answer isn't the obvious one. I therefore advance the theory that the reason why you have two ex-husbands is that you chucked them out because they were dead boring. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if you were married to MJ, J J, CJ, LJ or any of the other alpha-betties that hang about in your daddy's bar.' I raised my eyebrows. 'How'd I do?'

'You did good.'

'Just good?'

'You did one hundred per cent good.'

I shrugged modestly. 'Par for the course.'

She gave me a long, searching look, while I stared out to sea. 'You're very perceptive,' she said.

I shrugged again. I was normally about as perceptive as the Normandy Germans on the eve of D-Day. I was just applying man logic. Those eejits probably never left the bar. Michelle was the only woman they ever saw on a regular basis. And DJ was so protective of his daughter he probably never let her venture much beyond the bar. So he looked kindly on his cronies paying attention to her. He thought, Who else is going to marry a girl with no arms? This way his daughter got a shot at married life, plus he keeps her close at hand. Except she wouldn't stick with them. She was a bright girl, but you could see that she was looking for something else. She just wasn't sure how to get it. The long and short of it was, she probably fancied a bit of freckle.

I shifted uncomfortably. Although, not too uncomfortably. I was still looking out to sea, but I was aware of her watching me. She was admiring my chiselled features, the strong cut of my shoulders, the fine line of my backbone which suggested strength yet compassion. I had a lot of other wanky thoughts about how lush I was, but she was actually looking at the skin peeling off my forehead.

'You should get some cream for that,' she said.

'It's only sunburn,' I replied. 'What harm can it do?'

She smiled, and kept looking at me. 'If you had to ask me anything, what would it be?'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean — I have no arms. You're probably thinking about what it must be like to have no arms. There must be something you'd love to ask, but you'd never dare. But you can ask me anything. I really don't mind. About anything at all.'

She leaned forward enough for her breasts to press hard against the damp material of her T-shirt.

'Well,' I said, trying to do the gentlemanly thing and keep my eyes above her shoulders. 'How do you pick your nose?'

She nodded thoughtfully, savouring the question. 'You won't tell?'

'Not unless I'm tortured. Or asked.'

'I use a straw from the bar.' She moved a flipper and bent forward as if to pick something up. The end of the flipper curled inwards, grasped something invisible and then moved back towards her face. 'If I'm feeling mean I sometimes put the straw back in the jug.'

I made a face and laughed.

'Go on then, something else.'

She moved a little closer to me. I was facing the sea and she now was half-turned towards me. Just enough so that her breast was resting against my arm through her T-shirt. This obviously wasn't going to affect me at all, because I'd felt breasts against my arm before. Patricia's, for one. Or two. And clearly, once you've felt one breast against your arm, you've felt them all. Sort of. Kind of. I wasn't sure any more if it was skin peeling off my forehead, or just my blush giving up the ghost because of overwork.

'Well,' I said, 'what about writing? You use your toes, right?'

She shook her head; Her lips parted slightly. 'I use my mouth.' Her mouth opened wider; she formed it into an
O
, then closed it slowly as if she was gripping a pencil. Or something.

'I see,' I said, my voice suddenly several octaves higher. Somewhere in Ireland a sheep dog responded.

She giggled again. 'Of course I don't use my mouth. Not to write. I can paint with it though. You know, with a brush.' She opened her mouth a little further, a little rounder. 'The shaft is much thicker.'

'I see,' I said, and I did. I was picturing it.

'Go on then,' she said, 'ask me something else.'

'I . . .'

'Ask me about sex.'

'
I
. . .'

'Isn't that what all men think about?'

'Yes.' Although it sounded more like
Yeeeeeaaaash.

'Well, ask me then.'

'What, about sex?'

'Yes. Anything.'

'Well, what . . . what . . .'

'You want to know what I do, how I manage . . .'

No, I . . .'

'How I pleasure myself without any arms or hands or fingers?'

'No, really. I, I mean . . . too much information . . .'

'Do you know what I do?'

'No, and I really . . .'

'Do you know what I use?'

'I have no id—'

'I use my feet.'

'You use your . . . ?'

'And a banana.'

At this point I melted onto the rock and oozed away into the sea. There was sultry flirty talk and there was VAULTING OVER THE BOUNDS OF HUMAN DECENCY.

'Christ,' I said.

'There's an image to store on your mainframe,' she said, and laughed. I nodded helplessly. 'What do you think about that, Dan? Me and a banana? A nice, fresh, curved, yellow banana.'

'I . . . I mean . . . great. Whatever turns you . . . I mean . . .' I cleared my throat. 'Aren't you worried about pesticides?'

She nodded. 'You
are
a perceptive man. I put a condom on it. Do you want me to show you how I put a condom on it?'

'I think I can guess.'

I blew air out of my cheeks. My body temperature was off the scale. She made Lolita look like a big thick farmgirl. Half of me knew she was only winding me up. Which leaves half of me that didn't. Besides, you can only wind a man so far before he explodes. Or runs away. Perhaps she sensed this. She said suddenly, 'You're burning up, Dan. Come on — let's go for a swim.'

'I . . .'

She raised her foot and began to peel her T-shirt back up over her body. But it was still slightly damp so it didn't come off easily. It stuck on her breasts. She tugged at it, but it wouldn't come free. She said: 'Help me, Dan.'

So I eased it up over her breasts.

She smiled gratefully. She was completely naked again. 'Swim,' she said.

'I've no trunks,' I said.

'Neither have I.'

'I . . .'

'Come on.' She began to hop confidently down across the rocks and then onto the shingle. She had a small, round, perfectly formed bottom. 'Come on!'

Skinny-dipping?

I had never skinny-dipped in my life. Also I had never run down a beach with an erection before. But I did it — and strangely enough, I did it to recover my modesty. Her back was towards me, she was doing her dolphin swim already. If I could make it to the water and disappear beneath it, she wouldn't see my erection, and hopefully the cool water would hasten its departure. So I could explain to Patricia without any guilt at all why I was swimming with the Venus de Milo.

Although I wasn't swimming, of course. I was up to my shoulders and fearing for my life. My toes were desperately searching for footholds in the sand. Michelle swam up to me and I tried to hide my discomfort, and my erection, because it wasn't going anywhere but north.

'You're very good,' I said, 'at the swimming.'

'I'm like a shark,' she said. 'Gotta keep moving or I drown.'

Right enough, she was kicking her legs furiously while bobbing in front of me. That is, she was kicking her legs furiously until she suddenly surged forward and wrapped them around me. In a general groin-to-groin-type position.

I went, 'Oh.'

She went, 'Ah.'

'Oh.'

'Ah.'

'Mmm,' I said as she bobbed up enough to kiss me on the lips. I caught her and kissed her back. I held onto her for a moment. She was already grinding against me. Her breasts were crushed against my chest.

I enjoyed the crush and the grind and the kiss and her tongue for around thirty-seven seconds; and then I slowly pushed her back. This took a huge amount of mental effort. I should get some sort of a medal. I pushed her back, but her legs remained clamped around me. And they were strong, as they needed to be. I had no doubt that she could flex them and break my spine. Or flex them and force me to enter her. Which was as close as from here to over there.

She gasped, 'What?'

'I lied. I'm married.'

'So am I.'

She used her legs to pull herself in for another kiss. I co-operated, but only for twenty-six seconds.

I pushed her away again. 'You're divorced, Michelle. I'm not.'

She smiled indulgently. 'I'm divorced twice,' she said, 'but I got married again.'

I took a deep breath. 'You're . . .'

'I'm married to DJ.'

'You're married to your
dad?'

'He's not my dad!'

At times like this I normally rubbed at my brow in frustration. But she'd pulled herself closer again and now I had one of her breasts in either hand and it would have seemed impolite to release them.

'You're married to DJ?'

'Yes!'

'And yet you're . . .'

'Yes!'

'But why?!'

'Because he's lousy in bed!'

'Then why did you marry him!'

'Because he asked me!'

'If someone asked you to put your head in the fire, would you do that!'

'No!'

She was glaring at me now. Glaring at me, although her breasts were still in my hands and she was using her calf muscles to try and steer me into her nether regions.

Half of me was saying, Go for it.

And so was the other half.

But my third half was made of stronger stuff.

Moral fibre.

More than Davie, but still less than a Shredded Wheat.

She kissed me again and said, 'It doesn't matter.'

I kissed her back and said, 'Yes it does,' when I came up for air.' I'm in love,' I protested.

'So am I!'

It was no longer a question of guilt. Because I was guilty as charged. It was fear of retribution. At home in Belfast, Patricia suddenly sat up straight and growled. It was called instinct. It was about connection. She could smell my wicked ways at three thousand miles.

I had to make the break
now.

When I was at the very tip of entering.

It was like turning back one foot from the summit of Mount Everest.

Or less than a foot.

It was like freezing in the World Cup Final on the point of scoring the winning goal.

It was the horse smiling at the camera for the photo finish, and losing the race.

I pushed her back for the final time. 'No!'

And this time I backed suddenly away, breaking the hold of her legs; she flailed helplessly in the water for a moment, then regained her buoyancy. She looked disappointed, but not particularly angry. Maybe I wasn't the first person she'd tried to seduce in this manner. Maybe I was the one hundred and thirty-first. She was the Siren of the Seas and I had survived. I had done the right thing. I had been good, despite terrible temptation. I was suddenly pleased with myself, although I didn't smile.