I sighed. 'What happened, happened. It's always going to be there, Trish. You can't just turn the clock back.'
'I don't want to turn it back, Dan. I just want it to work. I want to wind it up so that it tells the right time. I want the old you back.'
'Well, I'm sorry. I am what I am. We don't all cope with things as well as you.'
'Cope? You think I'm coping? Christ, Dan, open your eyes. It's not just you. That man has ruined our lives. He killed our boy. He's out there on holiday while our son is mouldering in the ground. This isn't about revenge, it's about justice.'
'Can you hear yourself? Can you bloody hear yourself? This isn't about revenge, it's about justice. I've stumbled into Groundhog Death-Wish Day! Christ, Patricia, have you and Davie been grazing at the same fucking psychotic drugs or something?'
'Dan, I'm only trying to—'
I hung up. We had been through hell together, but we'd never volunteered for it before.
I lay back on the bed and drank my vodka. My head was throbbing as I heard again Davie's words by the pool: 'It's not rocket science, Dan. I've done the legwork. We go up to the seventh floor, we knock on the door, he opens it, we push him inside, get him down, put a pillow over his face and you shoot him. Nice and quiet. We come out of the room, go down the fire escape and run on down the beach in the dark. We lay low in the hotel for a couple of days then we get out of here.'
'Great,' I'd said.' Nothing can go wrong with that.'
He was right, in some small way, because I had imagined it. Killing The Colonel. At night. In bed. In the dark. And only about a hundred million times. But it was like fantasies of sex with girls you hardly know, thrilling but with the full knowledge that it's never going to happen; that if ever you were presented with the opportunity you would blush and enquire about the weather. Now Davie was by the pool, plotting murder. My wife was quite happily going along with it — not only going along, but positively endorsing it.
The world was mad.
Or was it only me? Was this what now passed for normality?
I opened my wallet and found Dr Raymond Boyle's card. There was an office number, but it was gone three at home so that wasn't much use. There was also a mobile, which was an invitation to disturb his sleep — otherwise, why print it?
It rang for about five minutes. Eventually a voice as groggy as Patricia's said, 'What is it?'
'Dr Boyle? It's Dan Starkey. I hope I'm not disturbing you.'
'What? Who? It's . . . three o'clock! Christ, man, of course you're disturbing me. Christ, it's three! What . . . ? This had better be . . . I mean, is someone dead or something?'
'Not yet,' I said.
'I . . . wait, just let me get . . . lamp . . . glasses . . . Sorry, dear — work . . .'
The line went dead and I thought maybe he'd hung up, but then he came back on and he sounded slightly more alert.' Dan, what's the matter?'
'You said to phone any time, day or night.'
'Well, of course — but I wasn't being literal. Any time day or night, but preferably between the hours of nine and five. Now what is it that's so import—'
'Everything I say to you is off the record, right?'
'Well, yes. Up to a point.'
'What do you mean, up to a point? It either is or it isn't.'
'Well, Dan, I'm court appointed. So I have to report back to them. But I don't have to give them all the juicy details. Why, what's the problem?'
I took a deep breath.' Well, I have this friend—'
'Stop right there.' He was definitely alert now.' We know each other well enough for you not to have to give me all that bullshit about having a friend with a problem. Be straight with me.'
'No really, I have this friend—'
'Dan, please, we're grown—'
'WILL YOU JUST FUCKING LISTEN TO ME?'
'Okay, Dan. Settle down.'
'Right. Right. Sorry. I'm just upset.'
'That's okay. You're allowed to be upset. Now tell me all about your imaginary friend.'
I sighed. I should have hung up. I didn't need a psychiatrist, I needed Dear Abby. A problem-page solution to a problem-page problem, simple and to the point. Yes or no. Do it. Don't do it.
'You know I'm on holiday, that I came away for a break.'
'Yes I do, Dan.'
'I thought I was helping a mate over his splitting up with his girlfriend. But it turns out he has me here under false pretences.'
I let that sit in the air for a moment. So did Dr Boyle. Then he said, 'You know, Dan, an attraction between two men can be a wonderf—'
'He wants me to kill someone.'
'Oh.' There was a tick-tick-tick sound, like he was drumming a pencil on a table.' Someone in particular?'
'You don't seem unduly shocked that this should be my predicament.'
'I've seen your CV, Dan. I'm frankly surprised that you waited this long to call.'
I cleared my throat. 'I know you're trying to humour me, Doctor, but I really don't need it right now. I need some advice.'
'I'm not going to advise you to murder someone, Dan.'
'Even if he's the man who killed my son, and he got let out of prison and he's lying on the beach here soaking up the rays while my boy is in the ground?'
'They let him out?'
'They let him out.'
'And he's sunbathing on the beach?'
'Well, not right now, but that's about the long and the short and the tall of it. My mate wants me to kill him, he has a gun. My wife wants me to kill him. She thinks it will sort out our lives.'
'And what do you want, Dan?'
'I want you to tell me what the right thing to do is.'
'I think you know already.'
'Well, how can I know it, yet he can't, and she can't?'
'Because half of the world needs lithium, Dan — they're all just undiagnosed. The other half phones me in the middle of the night with rhetorical questions.'
'Rhet . . . ?'
'You knew my response before you phoned.'
Yes, of course I had. 'And if it was your son?'
There was a pause then. The tapping sound started again. 'Is this off the record?' he asked. 'I mean, you're a journalist. A writer. You're not taping this, or intending to use it?'
'No, of course not. The relationship between a journalist and his contact is sacrosanct. Unless of course there's money involved. But you're the exception to the rule. You're my psychiatrist. I know what answer you have to give. But as a man, as a man who had lost a son in the most painful way possible, what would you do? If his killer was presented to you, in the flesh, and you could do it and get away with it, what would you do?'
Tick tick. Tap tap.
'And get away with it?'
'Yes.'
'And you're definitely not taping this? And I'm addressing this as a purely hypothetical situation, and nothing I say can be taken to condone or encourage an act of violence?'
'No. Yes. You know what I mean.'
'Well, in that case — yes, I'd go for it. I'd do it. I'd shoot him. With a huge amount of pleasure.'
'But what about the psychological damage you might do to yourself?'
'Oh, bugger that. Frankly, I'd be on a high for weeks. Hypothetically speaking.'
I was getting the impression that with very little further persuasion he might jump on the plane to Florida in the morning to give us a hand.
I thanked him for his time, and he told me to be careful. He said there was theory, and then there was real life. The desire for revenge was understandable. That the problem with turning the other cheek was that invariably you got whacked there as well. As a psychiatrist he could understand my predicament but not possibly advise me to carry it out; as a man he was already applauding.
I put the phone down and returned to the vodka. I sat and thought for another twenty minutes, then went back outside to Davie. His drink was sitting untouched. There was a cool breeze now off the Gulf which made it really rather pleasant. The beach bar was beg
inning to close up. Nobody in Florida drinks after nine o'clock at night.
'Anyone sitting here?' I asked.
He didn't smile, but he blew air down his nose like he appreciated it. I pulled out a chair and sat down.
'I've talked to Trish. I've sat in there and thought about it.'
Davie nodded. 'Good. That's all I ask.'
'I've thought about doing it. I've dreamed about it, Davie. About stabbing him, cutting his head off, gutting him. It's what he deserves. But I can't do it, because it would make me as bad as him, and I'm not. It's as simple as that. You've gone to a lot of trouble setting this up, getting me here. But no. No thanks.'
'You want me to do it?'
'No, I don't. I want you to leave him alone.'
'You want to let him just walk out of there?'
'Yes, I do.'
'Because I had Mikey check the register . . .'
'You had Mikey?'
'Yeah, the gay waiter.'
'He's not gay.'
'Just because he doesn't fancy you, doesn't mean he's not gay. Anyway, he'll work for anyone. He checked the register and The Colonel's only there for two more nights. This is our only chance, Dan. He could disappear and you might never find him again. You might regret it for the rest of your life.'
I took a deep breath. 'I know that. I probably will. But I just can't do it. And if I can't, and I have more reason than anyone in the world, then you can't either. I don't want you killing him, Davie. I came here to have a holiday, and that's all I want to do.'
Davie gave me a long, hard look. Then gradually his features softened. He winked and raised his glass. I hesitated for a moment, then raised my own.
'Okay, mate,' he said. We clinked. 'I think you're making a big mistake, but it's your decision. So let's forget about that bastard and enjoy the rest of our holiday. All right?'
'All right.'
And that was it. All sorted out. Nothing more to worry about. Really.
15
Ah, relaxing on holiday, with nothing to worry about apart from the knot in your stomach and the pain in your head and the certain knowledge that although everything appeared to be back on an even keel, it most certainly was not. There was no evidence beyond the circumstantial, there was no proof beyond the absolute conviction that nobody could go from being a double-dealing son of a bitch to best mate laughing on the beach in the blink of an eye.
He did his best, Davie. He got the beers in the next morning. We charged into the sea and blatantly challenged the stingrays to war. They chickened out straight away. He borrowed a Frisbee and we chucked that up and down the beach for an hour. He ordered hot dogs and fries from the beach bar, he played with kids in the pool. We looked through a new set of leaflets for the theme parks. I still had one eye on the Spiderman at Universal; unfortunately the other eye was on Davie, wondering what he was up to. He was too good to be true. Nobody changes that quickly.
A voice in my head was going, Go on, give him the benefit of the doubt. He's strange and delusional and somehow tied into a gang of revengers who make old Death Wish Charlie look like a Boy Scout, but it doesn't mean he can't change. He respects you, Dan, he loves your work, he was only trying to help you and Patricia. It was a very talkative voice and it was really starting to annoy me.
Davie was looking at me. 'We're young, free and single, matey,' he said, 'with the exception of you. What say we go look at the babes on the beach.'
'We did that about twenty minutes ago.'
'So?'
We wandered up and down the beach looking at the girls. When we started out, Davie began to walk in the direction of the Don; I made sure to turn him around and walk the other way, which he accepted with a wry 'can't blame a boy for trying' smile. The beach was lovely, the sand was warm, the sea was cool, the girls were beautiful, apart from the huge ones and the ancient reptiles with leather skin. We had a debate about thongs and came to the conclusion that they were last year's thing. After half an hour of cruising, we flopped back down on the sand outside the Del Mar. Davie opened his cool-bag and got each of us a beer. We lay back on the sand and looked up at the sky. We watched the same thing: someone was up there, parasailing, a tiny blot against the big blue.
Davie jabbed a finger up towards him. 'There, that's what we should do.'
'Aye, that's right.'
'No. I'm serious. What's that, about a thousand feet up? Views'll be magnificent.'
'As Oscar Wilde said, you can stick your views up your hole.'
'Ah, come on, man. Where's your sense of adventure?'
'Tucked up in bed where it belongs, thank you.'
'Look at it. The peace. The quiet.'
'The danger. The death.'
'I'll go and check out the price.'
He was up and scampering away across the sand to the bleach-blond beach bum in the kiosk before I could say, 'Stop or I'll kill you.'
I stared up at the sky, and then down to the sea. It was a long way. One man with a parachute attached to a speedboat by a piece of string; outer space above him, water full of sharks, stingrays and little fishies below him. It wasn't peace and tranquillity, it was sheer bloody terror.
Davie came bounding back after five minutes. 'Struck a deal. Usually it's fifty bucks each, but they'll do the two of us for that. Business is slow.'
'That's because people keep dying.'
'Would you ever wise up? They haven't lost anyone this week yet.' He punched my arm. 'Come on, Dan!'
'I hate things like that. Dangerous.'
'It's not dangerous! Get a grip! Come on!' He lifted his cool-bag and started walking down to the sea. 'Come on!'
He had supported me and my decision, now I had to show some gumption and fall in with something he wanted to do which didn't involve murder. So, very much against my better judgment, I followed. When I was a thousand feet up and about to die I would scream, 'See, I told you it was dangerous!' which would look good on my gravestone, although of course there'd be no actual body beneath it, because the sharks would have eaten it. Or the little fishies.
We cooled our heels at the edge of the water for ten minutes until the speedboat came in. The bleach-blond beach bum stood with us, but didn't say much. He didn't try to sell us any drugs, which was a pity because it was one of the few times I'd ever needed them. He did smile at me once and say, 'You're as white as a ghost.'
'And that's with the tan,' Davie commented.
'Don't worry,' said the BBBB. 'We haven't lost anyone this week yet.'
I gave him my steely grin. I wondered how many times he'd said it in his short sandy life.
The speedboat came in within a few feet of the beach and dropped a short ladder, and the last poor sucker they'd sent into space climbed down.
'How was it?' Davie asked.
'Fantastic!'
He was a boy of about fourteen. He scurried off up the beach, yelling, 'Dad! I want to go again!'
I swallowed and waded out after Davie to the ladder. Eager hands pulled me up. There was a pilot, and someone to look after the harness, parachute and line. Davie had been offered the option of a photographer for an extra twenty bucks, but I finally put my foot down. I had this image of the bodies plunging out of the Twin Towers after it was struck — you wouldn't wish those photos on your worst enemies. Davie finally conceded a point, and we set off.
The sea was calm.
I wasn't.
The harness guy said, 'There's nothing to worry about.'
I nodded, and gagged.
Davie said, 'I'll go up first, all right, mate?'
I wasn't going to argue. I kept one eye on the rapidly disappearing beach. I wondered how long it would take me to swim back there, and then how long it would take me to learn to swim.
'Way-hey!' Davie shouted with glee as he lifted off the small platform at the front of the boat. 'Way-fucking-hey!' he yelled as he gradually began to rise, the parachute billowing out above him. His ascent seemed slow and contained, but within thirty seconds he was up t
here, right up there, a thousand feet above the ocean, closer to the moon than any man I'd ever had a pint with. His 'way-fucking-heys' faded into nothing, there was only the pulse of the speedboat, the flap of the waves and the beat of my heart, which was loudest of them all.
After five minutes the harness guy said, 'Okay, let's bring him in.'
'Is that it?' I said. It was the only good news I'd had this decade.
The harness guy smiled and nodded. The pilot shouted, 'Any longer and the lack of oxygen could kill you.'
He was bull-shitting. I knew that, even though he kept his face straight. Ridiculous. Everest was higher and they'd climbed that all right.
Davie landed perfectly, all beams and smiles. 'You'll love it! You'll love it!'
They removed his harness and strapped me into it. There was a little plastic seat to sit on, there was a life-jacket, there was a thick cable to keep me tethered to the speedboat. Nothing could possibly go wrong. Davie clapped me on the back and said, 'It's fantastic, you'll have a ball.'
They were just about to release the parachute behind me. I shouted at Davie: 'If anything happens, tell Patricia I love her.'
He came as close as he could and said: 'You'll be fine.'
'Can I have that in writing?'
He smiled at me for a moment, then abruptly it faded. He came close and suddenly hugged me. 'I love you, man,' he said.
My mouth dropped open slightly. 'Davie . . .'
'And sometimes a man's got to do what a man's got to do.'
'Toffo,' I said as a matter of reflex. It was an old TV ad featuring a cowboy about to . . . 'Davie?' I said.
But he turned and nodded to the harness guy. Then there was a sudden lurch, and before I could think about what Davie meant I was off the edge of the boat and rising. At least part of me was. My stomach was still back on the platform. I managed a very half-hearted, 'Way-heh,' just to show that I was a good sport.
I was rising, rising, rising, just like the bile in my throat.
The speedboat was already Matchbox size. I was closing in on a thousand feet.
And then, suddenly, it was okay. It was fine. The bile sank, my spirits soared. I was flying. Floating. I was safe. It was truly breathtaking. Beautiful. Completely quiet. Surprisingly calm. Look at me, King of the World. I wanted to phone Trish and tell her how much I loved her and suggest that perhaps I should have a career change and volunteer for the Parachute Regiment. I could jump with my 'chute three or four times a week, when I wasn't busy shooting civilians.
Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) Page 12
