'I don't like the look of this,' I said.
'Spot of rain's not going to hurt us,' said Davie.
At about this time, lightning started to crackle across the sky.
In Florida they don't do their lightning by half measures either. At home, lightning looks as if a couple of fairy-lights have short-circuited. In Florida it's the end of the world. BOOM BOOM BOOM, went the thunder, CRACK CRACK CRACK, went the lightning. And then the rain started. I know you're getting sick of this, but at home — rain? Well, it can get you a bit damp. Occasionally you might get soaked. In Florida, on that road, in the sudden dark, it felt like we were under artillery attack. The rain pelted out of the clouds in thick sheets which smashed us, hammered us, flooded the roads and reduced visibility to fuck-all squared in a box in the time it takes a normal individual to chew an Opal Fruit. I kept driving, thinking we would pass through it, but it just went on for ever. We were crawling along, lights on full; my face was almost pressed against the windscreen, trying to make out the cars in front.
'This is crazy,' Davie said.
'Tell me about it. Christ, look at it.'
'We're going to get written off,' Davie said.
'We're going to be the richest corpses in America.'
Somewhere in front of us there was a sudden flash of light and a loud crack as a lightning bolt narrowly missed a car. Or else it really was artillery. I knew the Yanks were jumpy since September 11, but shelling us seemed a bit over the top. I would have given myself up at a polite, 'Excuse me.'
'Dan!'
I slammed on the brakes and just managed to stop us rear-ending the car in front. I'd been too busy admiring the lightning. Horns sounded from behind. To our left a massive truck roared past inches from us, impervious to the conditions or the danger. Big places have big weather, but this was Mother Nature's spectacular revenge for crushing her ants, or introducing them to E numbers. Either way I'd had enough.
'We have to get off the road, Davie, this is madness.'
'Just pull over onto the hard shoulder, wait for it to pass.'
'No. You can't even see the bloody markings — someone'll slam into the back of us. We need to get right off this road. I'm turning off at the next exit — we'll hole up somewhere for a couple of hours.'
I managed to keep us alive long enough to reach the next exit; I was expecting a motel or a McDonald's, but there were only farms and shacks and trees. If anything, it was even more dangerous because the road was narrower and there was no division between us and the oncoming traffic. Several times we were pressed heart-stoppingly close to flooded ditches as cars veered unintentionally across the invisible divide.
'You do know where you're going, right?' said Davie, wiping sweat from his brow. His hair was sitting dank on his head. He'd been as cool as a cucumber with a gun. He'd been in control. But this was beyond anyone's control, apart from Gandalf.
'South,' I said, 'then east.'
'I know that,' he snapped. 'But here and now, you know where you're going?'
'Of course I do.'
'It just looks to me like you haven't a clue.'
'Of course I know. We're going — straight ahead.'
'Where are we, Dan?'
'We're south of where we were, and we'll shortly be turning east. For fuck sake, Davie, I can't see the fucking signs.'
'Well, why don't you stop and ask someone?'
'Who? They're all in their fucking bunkers. Besides, I know where we are.'
'Ask directions.'
'You ask directions.'
'You're fucking driving.'
'And you're fucking doing nothing. You ask.'
'Ask who?'
'I don't fucking know.'
I drove on. He probably had a point, but I wasn't willing to concede it. It was Northern Irish politics in microcosm. I just drove. It didn't really matter where we were. The big weather was everywhere.
'It's getting heavier,' Davie said.
'Yes, I can see that.'
'How can it get heavier? It makes what we had earlier seem like a light shower.'
'I can see that too.'
'I'm only pointing it out.'
'Well, you don't need to.'
'Is it my imagination, or is the road getting narrower?'
'It's your imagination.'
'It is, you know.'
'Okay, so what do you want, a fucking framed certificate?'
'I just want to know that I'm on a road not a fucking dirt track.'
'It's not a dirt track. It's a road.'
'I just want to know we're not going to get stuck and some fucking big alligator isn't going to crawl out of the Everglades and bite my one good arm off.'
'Would you ever wise up? We're nowhere near the Everglades.'
'Oh yeah? Weren't we going south, didn't you start driving east about twenty minutes ago? Have you seen a sign? Hold on, I'll roll the window down and ask those fucking flamingos.' He mimed the action with extravagant arm movements. 'Hey mate, we're nowhere near the fucking Everglades, are we?'
I sighed. 'This is madness. Whose bloody idea was it to pull off the interstate?'
Davie cleared his throat.
'Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.'
'Then turn back, get back on it.'
'I can't. I've no idea where we are, and this road is too narrow, and it's starting to flood and I'm starting to worry about getting eaten by alligators, and I'm not entirely sure our insurance covers us for being dismembered by crawling fucking handbags.'
'Great,' Davie said. 'Fucking great.'
'It's not my fault.'
'Well, whose fault is it?'
'Yeah. I'm responsible for the rain. That's right. Don't be such an arse.'
'Huh.'
'Huh.'
We drove on. The rain got heavier. The road was getting narrower. Davie cursed and moaned and made sarcastic comments while I tried to maintain the stiff upper lip, mostly for his benefit, or to annoy him, because I was frantic inside. I've never been any good at physical manly-type things, like changing a light bulb or wiring a plug. The last time I had a flat tyre I put the car up for sale. Negotiating Mordor on a bad night was way beyond the limits of my experience or ability.
'Really, now, finally, turn back,' Davie said, 'or we're going to die.'
'We're not going to die. Just a little bit more,' I said.
'It's a fucking Land Cruiser, Dan, not a boat.'
'We'll be fine.'
'Oh yeah,' he said. 'Have faith.'
He rolled his eyes, then pressed his forehead against the glass. I drove for another five or fifty minutes, then finally stopped. 'Okay,' I said. 'Now we'll turn back.'
'You just had to,' Davie said, 'go that extra mile. Just to make it your decision.'
'Don't be so childish, Davie. You get your way, and I still get criticised. I can't bloody win.'
'Yeah, right.'
The thing about Land Cruisers is they always advertise them on TV in much the same way as they advertise tampons: no matter how crap you're feeling, you can still go out show-jumping and water-skiing and mountain-climbing. The Land Cruiser could leap over volcanic rock, ford suddenly raging streams, negotiate snowdrifts and conquer sand-dunes. Unfortunately, it could do bugger all about being driven backwards into a water-filled ditch. It could do sod all about the back wheels slipping into six feet of floodwater and then upending the rest of the car. It couldn't toss life-jackets to us as we scrambled out of the windows and dragged our sorry arses through the muddy water. It couldn't give us a hand or a round of applause as we hauled ourselves up the mucky, slippy bank to some kind of safety. It couldn't do anything but sit there filling with water.
Finally we stood on the bank, soaked, caked in mud, miserable, the rain teeming down around us, the lightning still cracking out of the sky and the farts-of-God thunder rolling angrily around us, looking down at our stolen vehicle filled with gold and floodwater.
'Fuck!' Davie exclaimed angrily.
&
nbsp; I joined him.
'That's just fucking brilliant.'
'I did my best, Davie.'
'Oh yeah.'
'Well, how was I supposed to know there was a ditch there? You didn't exactly get out to check.'
'You didn't fucking ask me to!'
'You could have volunteered. You knew I couldn't see anything.'
'You seemed to know what you were doing. Now I realise you didn't have a fucking clue. Now I realise what a wanker—'
'Aw, shut up.'
'No, you shut up.'
'Oh yeah, you're the big man, sank our car.'
'I'll fucking sink you.'
'Aye, you and whose army?'
'What age are you Davie, twelve?'
'Old enough to beat you, you stupid fucker. You've just driven millions of dollars' worth of gold into the fucking river.'
'I didn't do it on purpose.'
'Yeah, sure.'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'I don't know what it's supposed to mean. Take a guess.'
'What the fuck are you talking about? You saying I drove in there deliberately? Like any sane individual would do that, out here, the weather like this?'
'I rest my case.'
'You can rest your case up your hole, you wanker.'
'You're the wanker.'
'No, you're the wanker.'
'Is that right?' He came up to me and gave me a push.
'Fuck off,' I said and pushed back.
Then he pushed me again.
And I pushed him.
He took a swing for me with his good arm and missed. I swung for him and he ducked. He kicked out and I grabbed his foot and walked him backwards until he fell over into the water. I went with him. I landed on top of him. He pulled my hair and I punched his shot arm. He let out a howl and poked me in the eye with the finger of his good hand. I grabbed my eye and screamed; at the same time he punched me in the stomach. He tried to buck me off, but I stayed where I was. I got one hand round his throat and pushed him down into the water. With the other hand I scrabbed his face. He got a hand free and pulled my ear hard. Then he pulled my cheek out and twisted it. I screamed and brought my knee hard down on his balls. He yelled and let go of my cheek, but then he thrust his pelvis up and managed to throw me over his head. I landed with a splat and a splash. I was winded; before I could raise myself he was on me, trying to punch my face, but I kept moving my head from side to side. Every time he missed my face, one of my fists shot out and punched him on the bullet wound.
It was a good fight, and could have gone on all day, or until one of us drowned, but it was ultimately interrupted not by fatigue or tears or by one of our mothers arriving, but by a shout.
'Hey! Fellas! You okay over there?'
We stopped, and groggily turned to stare into the rain: there was a tractor with its full lights on twenty yards away, and just visible around the glare and rain, a farmer type waving at us.
Davie and I exchanged glances, then helped each other up. I stumbled across to the farmer shouting without any dignity at all: 'Help us, we're lost, we don't want to drown.'
As I reached him he smiled indulgently. 'Looked like you boys were having a fight.'
'We were just helping each other up. We went off the road. We had an accident. We're both a bit shaky. Thank God. You hear about people getting lost in the Everglades for ever.'
The old guy smiled with his cracked yellow teeth. 'Everglades? Those aren't Everglades.'
'Well, what are they?'
'Fields.'
I nodded. It didn't matter what the hell they were. We were safe. Davie arrived at my side. He was covered in mud from head to toe. So was I, for that matter. His shirt was ripped and I could see blood and dirt mixed on his shot arm. 'We need help to get our car out,' he said, and nodded back at the ditch. 'Do you have a chain or tow rope?'
The farmer was about seventy years old, his face pinched and weatherbeaten, his yellow oilskins cracked and ancient, but he was game for anything. 'Reckon I have,' he said, and began to climb down from his tractor. He splashed his way over to the ditch. Davie and I followed, glaring at each other behind his back. The farmer looked down at the car, which was about three quarters submerged. He nodded to himself. 'Reckon I can get it out all right, but it ain't gonna work. You'll need to take it to town to get fixed up.'
'That would be great,' I said.
'I'll go bring the tractor closer.' He splashed his way across to it.
Davie looked at me and hissed, 'Wanker.'
'Fucker.'
The farmer drove the tractor up, then jumped down and secured a tow rope to a hook at the front. He held the other end out.' Now I need one of you boys to go in there and secure the rope. That or we can come back tomorrow when the rain's off. Course, not sure the car will still be there.'
Davie looked at me, I looked back. Davie's lip curled up. Mine curled down. Davie stepped forward and took the rope out of the farmer's hand. 'I'll do it,' he said, and jumped back down into the ditch.
The farmer was just climbing back up into his tractor when I said: 'So where is the nearest town?'
Davie was just preparing to submerge himself in the water.
The farmer turned and pointed in the direction we'd been travelling. 'About a hundred yards that way, just around the bend.'
I nodded down at Davie, vindication enveloping my face. 'Told you, told you,' I sang.
'Fuck off, wanker,' Davie replied, then dived beneath the oozy muck-coloured water.
20
Everglades City had no real right to call itself a city. It would hardly have qualified as a village back home. It had a population of 321. That's what it said on the cracked green sign we passed on the way in, sitting on top of Farmer Giles's tractor. He wasn't really called Farmer Giles. We didn't know what he was called. More to the point, we didn't care. We were cold and damp and miserable. We hated each other. If we'd been two hundred years older, or younger, depending on how you look at it, we might have fought a duel. And I would have won, because I had right on my side.
When we weren't glaring at each other we noted the small school, the bank, the half a dozen guest-houses and dozens of small tourist-trap businesses exploiting the city's position on the edge of the western Everglades. It probably looked okay in the sunshine.
Farmer Giles towed our Land Cruiser to an auto-shop on the far side of the city, although you could have walked back to the nearside in about three minutes. It was still raining heavily, but it was all a question of degree: at home it would have qualified as the worst thunderstorm in history; standing at JJ's Auto-shop waiting for JJ to finish ramming a four-tier sandwich into his bake, it actually looked like the rain was easing off.
When JJ eventually emerged I said, 'Nice weather for ducks.'
He just squinted at us. 'What's that?' he said.
Our accents were as thick as champ. And yet he had an accent and we could understand every word. It was a conundrum. I thought about raising this point with Davie, but instead I gave him the fingers. He had turned me into a murderer and a thief, but much worse than that, he was being really mean to me. I was his oldest friend and he was subjecting me to torrents of abuse. He was a fucking fucker.
JJ took a look at our vehicle. 'Nice wheels,' he said. 'You give it a bath or somethin'?'
'That's right,' Davie said.
JJ smiled. He was wearing oil-stained overalls and a Miami Dolphins baseball cap. Some people suit baseball caps. JJ didn't. His head was too wide; his ears were bent down by the sides of the cap and sticking out at each side like handles. His hair was voluminous and naturally curly. He looked like he'd failed the audition for the Hair Bear Bunch. But he was going to get us out of a hole, so we wouldn't take the piss until later. And then only if Davie and I were speaking.
'I'll have to dry this mother down 'fore I can see how much damage been caused. You gentlemen planning on sticking around for a while?'
'How long's a while?' Davie asked.
&n
bsp; 'Difficult to say. I'm not too busy. Reckon I'd have her ready for you some time tomorrow, presuming I can get her ready at all.'
Davie glanced at me. I shrugged. We had no choice really.
'Is there a hotel in town?'
'Guest-house. Tell them I sent you.'
We stepped out of the auto-shop and stood stunned for a moment on the hot asphalt outside. Sky — blue. Sidewalk — dry. Sun — blasting.
'How do they do that?' I asked, even though I wasn't speaking to him.
'God knows,' said Davie, and He probably did.
We started to walk down the street marked Broadway — and then I stopped and said: 'Aren't you forgetting something?'
Davie thought for a moment. 'I'll count to three, and then we both apologise at the same time.'
'I was thinking more of the gold bars we've left in the boot.'
'Oh, fuck!'
We turned and hurried back into JJ's. He was back at his sandwich, so we shouted to him about our cases, and he waved us on. We opened the boot and hauled the gold out of the back. The soaked bag was even heavier than before. Davie winced. We were still caked in mud and slime, which couldn't have been good for his arm. My repeatedly punching him on it couldn't have helped either. I delved back into the car and pulled our travelling bags out. I draped one over either shoulder.
'Cheers,' Davie said.
'No problem.'
It was a small peace gesture on my part, although at the least provocation I would hurl his bag into the nearest swamp. I took hold of one end of the gold bag, Davie took the other with his good arm, and we heaved up. We began our walk back into the city.
It was hard going.
The sun was now so strong that the mud was drying out on our clothes and hair and faces, causing us to walk with a stiff gait like an arthritic version of the Wild Men of Borneo. If I'd been the local Sheriff, cruising past, I would have stopped for a nosey. So I can quite understand why he did — Sheriff Sterling Baines. It said his name on the side of the car. Under his name someone had painted two neat little rows of x's. He eased along beside us for several metres, then pulled the car into the kerb. He rolled down the window and smiled out at us. He was about sixty. His hair was thick and white. He was old, but he didn't look like someone you'd want to mess with. As soon as we'd clocked him I'd said to Davie, 'Let me handle this,' and he'd surprised me by agreeing.
Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) Page 16
