Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) (6 page)

'But you rejected it.'

'You know why.'

'You don't think it might have been a cathartic process, Dan? The fact is that you still find it impossible to unburden yourself to me — whereas a book about your son might enable you to do that in a medium to which you're obviously much better suited. The written word.'

'They want me to cash in on my son's death by writing about it. They want pornography for necrophiliac paedophiles. It's not for me.'

'Well, how is it going to get out then?'

'How is
what
going to get out?'

'Your hatred and guilt.'

'I don't have any hatred or guilt.'

He fixed me with a look. 'Dan. A blind man in a coal bunker can see the hatred and guilt.'

I glanced at my watch.

He said, blankly, 'Thirty-three minutes, Dan.'

'And three more sessions. Then I'll be done.'

'Unless you volunteer for more.'

I smiled.

He smiled.

'And I'm going to have to miss our next appointment.'

His smile faded.' The court made it a condition—'

'I'm going to be on holiday. I didn't think it would be a problem.'

He lifted a pen and tapped it against his teeth. I had already told him about the IVF and the surrogacy. He didn't think either was a good idea. He seemed to think we could do without the stress.

'Well,' he said after a while, 'a vacation could be beneficial. Somewhere nice and sunny, I hope.'

'Florida.'

'Lovely. You'll be able to talk this whole surrogacy thing through away from the distractions of daily life.'

'That's what I thought.'

'It's really a very positive step, Dan. I'm pleased.'

'I thought you might be.'

'Though of course you're not doing it to please me.'

I smiled. 'I try not to do anything to please you.'

'Do you ever think about him, Dan?'

'Who? My son?'

'No. The Colonel.'

'I try not to.'

'Out of sight, out of mind?'

'Something like that.'

'What about Patricia?'

'You'd have to ask her psychiatrist that.'

'You still don't discuss it.'

'There's a joke I know, Doctor.'

'Excuse me?'

'A joke I know which kind of explains my attitude to this, to just about every bloody thing you want me to talk about.'

He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. His hair was thinning and he'd crow's-feet around his eyes, which was the best place for them. He wore a brown suit and a yellow tie and beige brogues. He was as bland as a New York cheesecake. He had a hangdog look about him which was more Clement than Sigmund.

'Hit me with it,' he said, and then added, 'metaphorically, of course.'

'How many country and western singers does it take to change a light bulb?'

Most of us would just say, 'I don't know, how many?' but he was a psychiatrist. He tried to figure it out, which says it all really. I gave him ten seconds and then answered my own question. 'Six. One to change the bulb, five to write a song about it.'

Dr Boyle didn't smile, but he nodded appreciatively. 'You don't want to write songs,' he said.

'Nope,' I said, and walked out.

When I let myself into the house, I heard voices from the kitchen — Patricia's and a man's — and my blood immediately ran cold. I still got stressed about the possibility of Patricia rekindling her relationship with Tony, or anyone else for that matter. She'd told me a million times since that she'd never be unfaithful again, but once bitten and all that. So I stood in the hall for several moments trying to hear what was being said, but it was too muffled to really make it out. Had Tony's car been parked out on the street, and I hadn't noticed it? He drove a blue Siat, recently augmented with a Disabled sticker. I peered back outside, but the street was empty. No sign of wheelchair grooves or crutch imprints on the carpet.

The only male friend we had who was likely to call unannounced was Mouse, but since he had a voice that could lift lead off a church roof it seemed unlikely that it was him.

I walked down the hall, paused by the kitchen door for a moment, took a deep breath to prepare myself for unarmed combat or tears, then opened it.

'Davie,' I said.

He was sitting at the kitchen table with Patricia. There was an open bottle of whiskey between them, half-empty, and she was rubbing tears from her face.

'Dan,' he said, 'I've been talking to Trish.'

'So I see. What have you said to annoy her?'

He held up his hands in denial, but before he could say anything Patricia pushed her chair back and came towards me.

'I've got more understanding out of Davie in twenty minutes than out of you in twenty months.'

I glanced at him. 'Well, big fucking—'

But before I could finish she put a finger to my lips, and wrapped her arms around me. 'I love you so much, Dan Starkey, and I want you to have a fantastic holiday. When you come home we're going to have a baby and live happily ever after.'

'Okay,' I said.

'Good. Now pull up a chair and pour yourself a drink.'

'Okay,' I said.

Patricia wiped at her eyes again, then turned to Davie and smiled. 'See? As long as he does exactly as I say, we hardly ever fight.'

Shankhill Airways Flight 101 was to take us direct from Belfast to Sanford, twenty odd miles north of Orlando, Florida, home of theme parks, expensive shops, cheap villas and the hundreds of thousands of British tourists too middle-class to do Spain, but not middle-class enough to afford Hawaii. My flying companion was Davie Kincaid, once my best friend, and as it turned out, now an ex-cop.

'I never really got you as a cop anyway,' I said.

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Well, y'know, we were punks. Remember that Rudi song about the cops? We used to scream that chorus at them:
SS RUC! SS RUC!'

Davie smiled at the memory of it. He shook his head wistfully.' It was long ago and far away. And then I became a killing machine.'

I laughed.

We had little screens on our seat-backs on which you could choose to watch either a movie, a little map illustrating our progress through the skies, or pictures from cameras mounted to the front and underside of our aircraft showing how things looked outside. Bearing in mind that I hated flying at the best of times, that I classed all flying as a near-death experience, the last thing I needed to see was a map showing destination oblivion or cameras showing how ludicrously high we were flying. I never have understood why planes have to fly so high. Why can't they just skim the top of the waves?

'It's to do with the curvature of the earth,' Davie said, by now onto his third Bushmills whiskey.' Flying over the top of the waves would prolong the flight by days.'

I was prepared to put up with it. We could always stop somewhere for a picnic.

'Besides,' Davie said, 'I thought you couldn't swim.'

'I can't.'

'I thought you had a morbid fear of the water.'

'I do.'

'Then what the fuck are you talking about?'

I pointed down.' We're on a plane, and they stick life-jackets under the seat. Big fucking point. That's like handing out parachutes on a ship. At least if we skimmed the waves they'd have some bloody use.'

There were lots of kids on the flight. They were running about screaming. I didn't mind so much. I'd dreamed about taking Little Stevie to Disney. But that wasn't going to happen. Davie wasn't quite so relaxed. There was a baby crying constantly across the aisle from him and a kid of about six kept nudging his seat from behind.

'If he kicks my seat again,' he hissed, 'I'm going to fucking deck him.'

I didn't know him well enough any more to know if he was joking. I didn't know if the fact that he was now ordering his fourth whiskey meant that he had a drink problem or that he was even more of a nervous flier than I was. But what I did know was that even at this early stage it was hopeless to try and keep up with him. I was badly out of practice. I had to be in a state where I could at least walk off the plane. I smiled to myself. Showing some sense of responsibility at last. Patricia would be proud of me. Of course, with my luck, I'd be as good as gold for the eight-and-a-half-hour flight and then drop dead of a clot on the brain.

'I really appreciate the fact that you're coming with me,' Davie said. His voice wasn't slurred at all, which was slightly worrying.

'Don't mention it,' I replied. 'It'll be great.'

'I know. But a blast from the past, then a couple of days later we're on the road. You don't really know who I am any more or how I've changed.'

'Ditto.'

He smiled.' You haven't changed at all, Dan.'

'I know,' I said. 'That's the problem.'

He unscrewed the miniature's top and drank without pouring it into the plastic cup. He sighed contentedly. 'You know, you have changed a little bit. You're more diplomatic.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Well, you used to open your mouth and talk without always putting your brain into gear. Now you seem a little bit more circumspect.'

I shrugged. Clearly, he hardly knew me either.

'For instance, I said I had to leave the police, and you never asked why. I mean, you could be travelling with a maniac.'

'And so could you.'

'Fair point. But you were a journalist — what's the worst you could do? Give the pilot a bad review?' It didn't feel like a put-down, although it probably was. 'I used to be Special Branch. I am highly trained. You see all that bullshit security we had to go through before we got to Departures?' I nodded. 'The metal detectors and the body search and the X-rays and the dogs sniffing our shoes for Semtex? It's all just for show because of September eleven. They know it, I know it. Anyone with even the most rudimentary training in bomb-making could have walked into Duty Free and bought all the materials you need to construct a bomb. Alcohol, batteries . . . I swear to God, I could blow this plane to pieces if I had a mind to.'

I nodded pleasantly at the air hostess as she passed, while smiling at Davie at the same time and saying, 'Very funny, good one.'

'I'm serious,' he said.

'I know. Just keep your voice down. Jesus.' This time I took a drink.

'Theoretically speaking,' he said.' I don't really have a bomb, Dan.'

'Good.'

'Go on then.'

'Go on then what?'

'Ask me why I got drummed out of the police.'

'You got drummed out?'

Davie raised his eyebrows. 'Look at me, I'm forty years old, fit as a fiddle, prime of life, I got paid to carry a gun about and shoot bad guys. You think I'd just walk out of that?'

'I really don't know.'

'I was pushed.'

'Why?'

'Why do you think?'

'I really don't know.'

Davie laughed. He lifted two of the miniatures and clinked them together. 'Any closer?' he asked. 'Take a wild guess.'

'Drinking,' I said. He nodded. 'Sorry,' I said.

'Don't be sorry, Dan. It's not like I'm a raving alcoholic.'

'Well then, why?'

'Three convictions for driving while under the influence. Cop's bugger-all use to anyone if he can't drive. So they drummed me out. Full pension and all, but it's a fucking hard lesson.'

'Sorry,' I said again.

'That's why it's so fantastic that you're doing this, Dan. Driving me all round Florida for three weeks. It's like having my own personal chauffeur.'

He winked, then drained his miniature. He pressed the call button for another.

I sat there, kind of stunned. He could tell by the look on my face that something was up. 'What?' he said. He signalled at the barmaid — sorry, hostess — for a repeat prescription, then smiled across at me. 'You look a little . . . ?'

'I'm fine. I'm just . . . a couple of minor points, Davie.'

'Shoot,' he said, making a gun with his fingers as the hostess handed over the miniature.

She scowled. 'That's the last of your complimentaries,' she said.

Davie nodded as he broke the seal. She turned away.

'Will you stop doing that with your fucking fingers?'

'What?'

'This.'
I made the gun shape. The hostess, passing back in the opposite direction, scowled at me this time. I sighed. I put the gun back in its holster. 'Davie, listen to me. Three weeks. I was under the distinct impression that it was two.'

'No. Three. It was always three. Can't do America in two.'

'But I told Patricia two.'

'Nobody ever said two.'

'But I'm supposed to—'

Oh God. Patricia would be furious. She was supposed to go into hospital to have her eggs removed. I was supposed to go back and wank into a cup. The sperm would be analysed to be sure there were no infections and the eggs examined to make sure there were no imperfections and then the whole lot would be frozen for six months while we went through the mandatory legal channels and counselling procedures. All our appointments were already set up. Patricia liked to know what she was doing. She liked organisation. She did not like last-minute changes of plan. She would scream that our entire future together rested on us fulfilling this first appointment. It didn't, of course. But it would seem like it. Davie had definitely told me two weeks, although that was neither here nor there. She would still blame me. She would say, 'Why didn't you check the tickets?' Because I never had them, Davie had them. Then she would tear her hair out and scream, 'What do you think would have happened if they'd had to postpone the fucking invasion of Normandy because someone was too fucking brain dead to check the tickets?' The fact was that they did have to postpone the invasion, but it would be lost on her. She would say this was the final straw and run back into the broken arms of her lover. I sighed again.

'Come on,' Davie said, 'it's not such a big deal. She'll be fine about it.'

It was, and she wouldn't be. But I would have to jump that hurdle when I came to it. The fact that he seemed to think I was going to be his chauffeur was much more pressing.

'If you think I'm driving you from pub to pub for three weeks, then you've another think coming.'