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.'
6
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.'
'Ah Dan — for godsake, it won't be that bad. There won't be that much driving.'
'There won't be any driving, Davie.'
'What're you talking about? It's a fly-drive holiday.'
'I haven't got a licence either, Davie. They took mine away as well.'
And that flummoxed him. He sat back into his seat. 'You're serious?' I nodded. He started laughing. He slapped his leg. He probably would have slapped mine too if I hadn't moved it.' What are we like? We're a pair of fucking numskulls.'
He had a point.
'What the fuck did you lose yours for?'
'Same sort of nonsense.'
As it seemed like we wouldn't be driving anywhere when we landed, we decided to get pissed. Or he decided to get more pissed and I made a valiant effort to catch up. It didn't take long. There's something about flying that gets you drunker quicker. Perhaps it's the altitude, or the stale air circulating through the system, or fear that at any moment you could be blown into a million bloody smithereens.
About an hour out of Sanford the hostesses announced that the bar was shut, then came through with landing cards which had to be filled in to get us through immigration and customs. It was a struggle; we had to remember our names and our flight numbers and our destination and we had to squeeze all this information into little boxes and write it in capital letters. It was like sitting our eleven-plus while underwater. Or trying to do something sensible when pissed.
Davie was busy giggling to himself.
'Just fucking concentrate,' I hissed, 'or they won't let us in.'
Davie sniggered and pointed at the back of his form.' They're not going to let us in anyway. Look at this shit.'
I turned my form over and studied it.
Davie jabbed a finger at the top question in a list of half a dozen.' They want to know if we're Nazis.'
He cackled. I read the question. They did.
'Like you're going to answer, "Yes, I'm a Nazi".'
The next question asked if we'd ever been involved in acts of genocide.
'Yes, when I was a Nazi. I mean, what sort of stupid fucker is going to answer yes?'
The third question asked if we'd ever been involved in international terrorism.
The fourth was about our involvement in smuggling narcotics.
It was ludicrous and surreal, although not as ludicrous and surreal as Davie seemed to think it was. He went on and on about it. Eventually I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep. And before very long I was asleep. I dreamed about Little Stevie, but he wasn't so little, he was all grown-up and pushing me around in a wheelchair. He was pushing me down a footpath, but the paving stones were all cracked and there was no suspension and every time we hit a bump the whole contraption shuddered. He kept saying, 'Watch out, old man, watch out,' and I tried to say something but dribbled out of the side of my mouth instead.
When I woke my mouth was as dry as a bone. Davie was half-turned, glaring malevolently at the kid behind.' You kick the back of me again and I'll break your fucking neck,' he hissed between the seats.
The kid looked petrified. Luckily, from our point of view, the woman he was travelling with had her earphones in and her eyes closed.
Davie turned back, satisfied, and winked at me.' Hiya, Sleepyhead. Another twenty minutes and our walking tour begins.'
According to the map on the screen in front of me we were just slipping from Alabama into Florida. I peered out of the window. We were noticeably lower in the air, although not so low that we would be okay if our engines failed and we plummeted to the ground and exploded in a fireball.
Davie was gazing down at the land below as well. Perhaps he was just as panicked about flying as I was, and sought to cover it up with the drink and the bravado. As I looked at him gazing at America below, unaware that he was being watched, I thought perhaps that he was a little bit lost, that he was thinking of something else, something darker. I know dark things, I recognise them. I hadn't really known Davie for the best part of twenty-five years; although we were older, we were not necessarily wiser. He had been a policeman, he had been in Special Branch all through the bad times. There was no telling what he had seen or what he had done. We were about to spend three weeks in each other's company, and it could be heaven, or it could be hell, but the reality would probably lie somewhere in between.
I put a hand on his arm and said: 'We'll have a ball.'
He glanced back and gave me a half-smile.
'I'm sorry it didn't work out with the fiancee.'
He nodded.
'I'm sure she was nice. I'd love to have met her.'
His head turned more fully towards me, away from the window. 'You did meet her.'
'What do you mean?'
He laughed. 'What I say. Dan — it was Karen. Karen Malloy. We used to hang around outside her house: she was the most beautiful creature we'd ever seen. Remember?
'
I nodded.
'You took off to Belfast and I stayed behind, because I knew if I hung around long enough she'd eventually fall for me. And she did. I came within a hair's breadth of marrying Karen Malloy. How close to perfection can you get, eh, Dan?'
He smiled at the memory of it, then closed his eyes for the final run into Sanford airport. I thought about different things: Patricia, life and love and the prospect of a fiery death on the runway, but mostly I thought about the fact that five years previously, I'd attended Karen Malloy's funeral in Belfast.
7
Way back in punk, we had both been jokers. The anarchy of The Pistols had always been counterbalanced by the comic lunacy of The Damned. But now we were twenty-five years further on, punk really was dead, and I had to decide whether Davie was winding me up, a complete and utter bullshit artist or whether he really did think he'd been about to marry Karen Malloy — in which case he would need medication, and lots of it.
The simple solution would have been to confront him with it: point out that Karen was dead and tell him to stop talking crap. But we were about to spend three weeks in each other's company: what kind of atmosphere would that make for, him exposed as a liar and fantasist? Especially as I like to think of that as my own personal territory.
As We queued up to go through passport control Davie kept joking that he was going to claim political asylum. He threatened to declare his genius like Oscar Wilde. He was on fine form and I was staring black-eyed into the distance wondering not for the first time in my life what I'd gotten myself into and realising that the expression, 'There's no such thing as a free lunch', now had a wider and more international perspective.
The question was, how much was I going to pay? And how painful was it going to be?
Davie's hair was all over the place from several unsuccessful attempts to sleep in the plane, his shirt was hanging out of his trousers, he was cracking funnies and taking the piss out of the uniforms. I was trying to walk steadily, look focused, be polite and helpful. Inevitably, he sailed through and I was given the third degree, mostly because I'd misspelled my own name on the entry form. I had to stand there and fill the form out again while Davie, at the next booth along, offered them his form, then withdrew it, then offered it cackling, 'What do I win then? What do I win?'
Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) Page 5
