Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) Read online

  DRIVING BIG DAVIE

  HONEYMOONS, HOMICIDE & A SEVERE CASE OF SUNBURN

  Colin Bateman

  Copyright © 2004, Colin Bateman

  The right of Colin Bateman to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Bateman was a journalist in Ireland before becoming a full-time writer. His first novel, DIVORCING JACK, won the Betty Trask Prize, and all his novels have been critically acclaimed. He wrote the screenplays for the feature films DIVORCING JACK and WILD ABOUT HARRY and the popular BBC TV series MURPHY'S LAW starring James Nesbitt. Bateman lives in Ireland with his family.

  For Andrea and Matthew, The Clash, Rudi and the portly punks of '77

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  1

  Everyone worth knowing knows exactly where they were when they heard Joe Strummer was dead. I know exactly where I was. I was sitting in a private room in a private hospital, trying to wank into a cup.

  This probably needs some explaining.

  Not everyone knows who Joe Strummer is. Or was. Joe was rock'n'roll.

  He was The Clash.

  For my generation, he was the man.

  He sang 'White Riot' and 'Garageland' and 'London Calling' and 'Know Your Rights'. He ran the tightest, wildest, most exciting beat combo in history.

  He made music important. He changed lives in a way that Spandau Ballet or The Hollies never could. He was my Elvis, my Beatles, and he never got fat, or bland, or shot.

  The world is indeed cruel. I know that more than most people. And I take refuge from that cruelty in the music of my youth.

  Joe was dead and he was only fifty years old, yet Elton John was still alive. Chris de Burgh was still breathing while Joe, the man who Fought the Law and stood for everything that was good and lush about rock'n'roll was pushing up daisies. Cliff Richard was still giving power to all his friends, for Christ's sake. But Joe was dead. It had already been a miserable few years for the punk generation. Johnny Thunders had succumbed in a seedy New Orleans hotel, Ian Dury had lost a battle with cancer. Two of The Ramones had snuffed it, and the other two were touring as The Remains. But Joe — it wasn't even a rock'n'roll death. He had taken his dog out for a walk in the countryside, then dropped dead from a heart attack. It was frightening.

  Still, wanking into a cup.

  The hospital was in Belfast West, that part of the city once known as West Belfast, until a £3m EC-funded tourism think-tank came up with a rebranding idea which was destined to fool all of the people none of the time. So we now had Belfast West, Belfast South, Belfast East and the Shankhill Road, because they knew better than to mess with those boys. I know a bit about tourism now, because it's kind of what I do. What I'm reduced to doing.

  Sad.

  I was about six months into my pipe and slippers years, with the exception of the pipe. I was happily reunited with my wife, I lived in a nice house in a nice suburb close enough to enjoy Belfast's many and varied shopping facilities but far enough away that we wouldn't be overly put out if things went all to hell, which they still did from time to time. I was for many years a journalist of some repute, mostly ill, reporting mainly on the troubles — usually my own — but for the past six months I had endured journalism of the last resort, commonly known as public relations. Now I was working in a small operation set up by the Government to promote tourism in Ireland. They didn't even call it Northern Ireland any more. The flag that hung lamely above Stormont was white. The project I worked for was called Why Don't You Come Home for a Pint? It was aimed at the tens of thousands of students who'd exiled themselves from their homeland during the course of thirty years of violence, and was supposed to entice them home with the promise of high-paying jobs, low cost of living, a grand social life and a guarantee that nail bombs were a thing of the past. Which they are. They're so 1970s. Whenever anyone phoned to enquire about grants or mortgages or business opportunities, I had to say, 'Hi, this is Dan Starkey, why don't you come home for a pint?'

  Really. I had a script. I had to say it or I'd get a warning from the supervisor. You were allowed three warnings, then you got knee-capped. Old habits die hard.

  But still, wanking into a cup.

  You see, Patricia and I have had our ups and downs. And as the old nursery rhyme goes, when we were up we were up, but when we were down we were really fucking down. We had battled through separations, affairs, murder and mayhem, like any marriage really. Except there had also been Stevie, our boy, our boy with the red hair who'd starved to death in a bunker and been buried in a little white coffin. That had destroyed us and for a long time we'd gone our separate ways, knowing all the while that we still loved each other and that one day we'd get back together but neither of us prepared to make the first move.

  And then it had happened, and needless to say drink was involved, and a party, and my old mate Mouse inviting us both without letting on and then deliberately seating us at different ends of the table during dinner so that we couldn't slap each other round the head. Then he played old songs by The Rezillos and The Mekons and Rudi which everyone else looked aghast at but had me up dancing like an eejit and Patricia up there with me doing a silent boogie and trying not to look at me but eventually not able to stop herself from smiling because Mouse put on 'You're a Disease, Babe' and we were pissed and pushing forty and dancing to The Outcasts, which we wouldn't even have done as teenagers because they were always the most unfashionable punk band in Belfast — but there, after midnight, pissed on red wine, with everyone else at the party begging for relief or Neil Diamond, we danced happily and punched the air every time Greg Cowan hit the chorus. We giggled and danced and eventually kissed and that was that. We went home together and we stayed together; we loved each other — with added ground rules. An end to the fecklessness, which translated as a proper job; I hadn't been in a bar in months; occasionally we had dinner-parties; I have been known to toss a salad. And they say punk's not dead.

  We were happy.

  And yet.

  There was always the grey area, the invisible border we were not able to cross.

  Little Stevie.

  We would never forget him, but we had to. He would always be part of us. But he had to be removed. The memories of him took us high, but would invariably drag us low. It should have been easier for me. He wasn't even my son. He was the product of Patricia's affair with her work colleague Tony, an affair she'd largely undertaken as an act of revenge for my own philanderings. But then she'd half fallen in love with him. Of course he wanted nothing to do with the baby when it came along, because he was already married, and a ginger bap cunt at that.

  Excuse me, the memory of it still riles.

  And so it
was that I said one night in bed, 'Let's have a baby.'

  She cried and cried and cried, and I cleared my throat a couple of times, and we decided that yes, now was the time.

  So we tried. And tried. We went from this is fantastic, we're having sex three times a day to Christ do we have to? in about two weeks. We were having sex in the ad breaks in Coronation Street; we were having sex while Patricia bought pots from Argos — albeit on the phone rather than in the store. I even found out later that Patricia bought a tiny pair of white booties to present me with as soon as she was pregnant.

  Except she never did get pregnant, and eventually we went to the doctor, and we found out that Patricia had all sorts of gynae problems you don't want to know about but mostly brought on by Little Stevie's traumatic birth. Even if by some miracle she did get pregnant the chances of her carrying a child full-term were fuck all squared in a box.

  The doctor sat us down and told us in that bland patronising way doctors have. Had to have, really. They couldn't care about everyone or they'd blow their heads off. Patricia looked like she was going to cry. Her lip was quivering and her cheeks were flushed. I held her hand and said, 'Well, is that it?' to the doctor. And to Patricia I said: 'Sure, can't we always adopt?'

  'Don't you think I've already thought about that?' she snapped.' Do you think I wasn't aware the odds were stacked against us?'

  I shrugged helplessly.

  'Are you fucking brain dead?'

  Patricia was always handy with the compliments when she was upset. The doctor, sensing three rounds of championship boxing coming up, told me adopting probably wasn't a good idea.' Nobody gives their babies up for adoption any more. The only ones that are available are either badly disabled or they've been abused and taken away from their parents.'

  I sat with my head in my hands. Partly depressed, partly to stop Patricia striking me.

  'Did you ever think of IVF treatment and—?' the doctor began to ask.

  'I can't carry a bloody child,' Patricia said angrily.' What the hell use would—'

  'Let me finish, Patricia.' The doctor gave her a hard look and Patricia took a deep breath.' IVF treatment together with surrogacy. We could find a surrogate host for your child.'

  I peered through my fingers. The doctor was nodding at Patricia.

  Patricia wiped at an eye.' Surrogacy? Isn't that, like, illegal or something?'

  'No. Not at all. It's not illegal. It's strictly regulated. But certainly not illegal. It may be that your eggs are perfectly fine. It may be that they can be extracted and then fertilised in a laboratory with your semen, Dan. Then a donor can be found to carry the child. It could be the perfect solution.'

  Patricia was smiling already.

  'Dan?' the doctor asked.' What do you think?'

  'About what?'

  Patricia tutted.

  'About IVF treatment. Surrogacy.'

  'Well,' I said, 'we were hoping for a Protestant ― would there be any chance of UVF?'

  And so, to wanking into a cup.

  The New Haven Private Day Hospital was a redbrick building off the Falls, just opposite a heavily fortified — but beautifully landscaped — PSNI (Police Service of Northern Ireland) station. It had fifteen rooms where people were sliced apart and put back together. The hospital had a similar number. There was a water-cooler in reception and everyone was pleasant. There were none of those 'What the fuck do you want?' looks which you got when you walked through the doors of the Royal Victoria Hospital. This was a consultation, a first baby step on the road to surrogacy. Even so we'd each been advised of what to expect and been provided with a set of instructions. The consultant was a white South African with a name that rhymed with pomegranate, but we called him Dr Love. He was nice and friendly and talked us through the infertility treatment even while he had a lubricant-soaked 12-inch plastic probe up inside Patricia's bits. The last time someone had been that personal with her I'd tried to knock him down with my car, and then become a father to his son. Dr Love looked at her ovaries on the monitor and tutted at the endometriosis then shook his head at the state she'd been left in after the birth of Stevie. He told us about the hormone injections Patricia would have to have, and that his clinic couldn't legally provide us with a surrogate to carry the child, but would put us in contact with an organisation that could.

  As he peeled off his rubber gloves he turned to me and smiled and then said, 'So let's be having you then, Dan.'

  I swallowed, and Patricia gave me the thumbs-up. 'Have a good one,' she said.

  A pretty nurse — and she would have to be pretty, they couldn't have sprung some horse-faced hare-lipped hunchback on me who wouldn't have grinned knowingly like this one did — led me down a short corridor to a room with quiet stencilled on the door.

  'This is our Quiet Room,' she said.

  No, it's not, I thought. It's your Wank-in-a-Cup room.

  She was grinning as she led me into the room, she was grinning as she pointed out the bathroom within, the sofa, the table bearing three porn mags, and the cup for masturbating into. She was grinning even though she was well used to it. Of course I was well used to seeing Everton lose, but I still laughed every time it happened. So she grinned some more and said, 'And you've abstained from sexual relations for three days?'

  'Days?'

  'Yes. Days.'

  'The bitch. She told me three weeks.'

  Her grin widened.' Perhaps she misread the instructions.'

  'Perhaps she needs a thick ear.'

  This was not very politically correct, but then who gives a fuck? Her grin narrowed somewhat. She told me to do my business into the plastic cup, and to then leave it on a small shelf outside the room where she would collect it and have it analysed to see how many swimmers I had. Then she left the room. I locked the door behind her, then checked that it really was locked — three times. Because there's something about masturbation: all men, and several women, do it, but it's a secret thing. You don't say to your wife that you're away upstairs for a wank; you wait until she's downstairs defrosting chicken cutlets or out getting her hair ruined. You don't wank into her favourite cup and then pop down and show it to her.' Look what I done!' It's a private thing between you and an old sock. But there I was in a private room in a private hospital with official approval to look at porn and masturbate.

  Clinical.

  Loveless.

  Of course if you think this put me off, then you've got another thing coming.

  2

  Any time, any place, anywhere. It's a man thing.

  Women need soft light and candles.

  Men need soft porn and five minutes.

  I sat down on the sofa and undid my trousers. I lifted one of the porn mags. It was top-shelf stuff, but hardly hardcore. Basically, it was women with their legs spread. There are worse things in life. So I sprang into action.

  You don't have to imagine this; it's probably better if you don't.

  But I was sitting there looking at these heavily made-up women showing me their most private parts and thinking, What is a respectable time to spend masturbating before going back out cup in hand? If I spent three minutes they'd think I was a horn ball, or habitually premature. Thirty minutes, they'd also think I was a horn ball, or that I couldn't get it up. Was there a happy medium — say fifteen minutes? Ten? Twenty? Was there such a thing as a respectable wank-time? Should they have imposed a time-limit? I was turning the pages all this time. I came across, metaphorically speaking, a smutty crossword someone had taken the time to fill in. And then three pages later — well, make that five, because the last two pages were stuck together. Freshly stuck together. In fact, they were still damp. I Frisbee-ed the porn mag across the room.

  Bollocks.

  I glanced at my watch. I was six minutes in. Soon they'd start checking the clock. Making wisecracks. Maybe they had secret cameras to make sure I wasn't doing anything I shouldn't. A pervy-cam. I was sweating now. Losing interest. Christ. Maybe I was appearing live on the giant
TV screen above Donegall Square. Maybe I was live on the Internet. Maybe half the world was laughing. Maybe Noel Edmonds or some other beardless wonder would stroll in and announce I was on Candid Camera.

  With my trousers around my ankles I shuffled across and checked that the door was locked again. Then I checked the light-fittings for hidden cameras. Nothing. But it didn't mean they weren't there.

  Nine minutes, sitting there, half-mast.

  Twelve minutes, even less.

  Concentrate.

  Concentrate? Since when did you have to concentrate on . . .

  Jesus come on, it's all in a good cause.

  I wonder how many games Liverpool need to win to be sure of European qualification?

  Stanley Baxter did not star in Zulu.

  Fifteen minutes.

  Stanley Baker.

  They're really getting worried now. Soon the nurse is going to knock on the door and say, 'Is everything all right?'

  Just coming.

  Okay. Okay. Relax. Relax.

  Think about . . . think about sex, think about the best sex you ever had. No, the first sex you ever had. The wonder of it. The absolutely fantastic wonder of it. Even the first kiss. Who was that with? It was lying in the snow with a girl. Not Patricia. She was my first proper girlfriend, but there were other fumblings in the dark. That's better, that's definitely better. Imagine the excitement of that, of the first time, of discovering an entirely new, long-dreamed-of but undiscovered world. Like the Vikings landing in America. Like Armstrong setting foot on the moon. Like kissing a girl for the first time, like feeling her tongue in your mouth, tasting warm cider and burgeoning lust — definitely, this is the business — like squeezing your fingers under bra wires, expecting a mouse trap but getting warm skin, getting pulled close safe in the knowledge that she was as young and naïve and absolutely up for it as you, lying in snow but it could be on a beach, you're as hard as a rock, you're going to do it, you're really going to . . .