Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) (4 page)

I shrugged helplessly and happily. I was a celebrity in Groomsport in the same way that Karen Malloy had been a great beauty; it meant bugger all just a mile away up the road. But still, Vernon was buying me a drink.

'So what are you havin'?'

I ordered a pint.' I'm supposed to be meeting Big Davie. Have you—?'

And with perfect timing, the opening chords of 'Should I Stay Or Should I Go?' pealed out of the jukebox, and the boys parted to reveal Davie leaning against it with his arms folded across a leather jacket and his hair slightly quiffed up. Very rock'n'roll. I wasn't sure if this was still his normal style, or whether he'd made a special effort. I, on the other hand, was dressed head to foot courtesy of Kays Catalogue. Polyester Man. I was getting old. I felt it now, and Trish did nothing to help me, ordering all this crap out of a catalogue.' How're you doin', mate?' Davie grinned.' Thought I'd get the boys back together to mark the occasion. Little Danny Starkey's back in town.'

'Davie.'

'Whaddya think — The Clash on The Stables' jukebox! It only took Vernon twenty-five fuckin' years.'

Vernon grinned across, but it seemed to me that a flicker of anger crossed his face. The boys themselves looked a bit awkward.

'C'mon and get a pint, Davie,' Mark said.' Vernon's buying.'

Davie stood by the jukebox for a moment longer, then came across with his hand extended.' Dan,' he said.

We shook.

'Shakin' hands like we're all grown-up,' he said.

'I know. Happens to us all.'

I nodded around my old friends. It did happen to us all. We managed to get a couple of rounds in, chatting about the old days, without me talking to Davie directly at all; there was something between us, an awkwardness, a holding back. But then one by one the others began to make their excuses and leave. One was driving and didn't want to risk his licence. One had to relieve a babysitter. One couldn't take another drink or he'd be up all night burping. They shook my hand again and said how great it was to see me, but I could tell they were kind of relieved to be going home. The pub was no longer their natural environment. They were family men. Davie and I never were, never had been.

'Great to see them, all the same,' I said.

'Ah, part-time punks,' he replied dismissively.' You see them more than I do.'

'But you're still in Groomsport.'

'Oh aye. Fucking fixture in here.' He nodded around the bar. Vernon glanced over, but stayed talking to another punter.

'What about Joe, then?' Davie said.

'Aye. Dreadful.'

We looked at our drinks. I'd come all this way to reminisce about The Clash, but we seemed to have exhausted it with one exchange.

Davie nodded back up to the bar.' Ah, fuck it,' he said.' Vernon, give us four pints of snakebite.' He winked across at me.' It's like we're on a first date, mate, isn't it? Awkward as fuck. Let's sink these and then the barriers will come down.'

I nodded.

I was in a quiet village getting quietly drunk with an old mate. It wasn't the sort of place where you could possibly get into trouble.

Vernon, my new best buddy, threw us out just after midnight. He barred Davie for ramming bottle-tops into the coin slot on the jukebox and screaming, 'Daniel O'Donnell's a cunt! Daniel O'Donnell's a cunt!' at the top of his voice.

The sentiment wasn't wrong, just the means of expression.

I was drunk, but Davie was pissed. He was funny though, which makes up for a lot of things. We'd talked for hours. He was right. We needed to get pissed together to break down the barriers that had been erected over the past twenty years. Now we were rolling along the main street like kids, the wind off the sea battering us, the rain soaking us, but neither of us caring. We were just having a laugh. Big Davie. My mate. He'd even managed to persuade Vernon to sell him half a dozen cans before throwing him out. It was like the United States selling weapons to Iraq. Sooner or later he knew Davie was going to come back and slap him in the face with them.

'That fucker bars me every week,' Davie growled as he drank his first can in one.

It was a comment I should have taken on board at the time.

Davie crumpled the can, threw it up in the air, then kicked it hard.' He shoots! He scores!'

Except that he had scored through the front window of a terraced house. The glass shattered, and for a moment we just stood there in shock.

Then we took off, racing up the street laughing madly.

Davie led me along several back streets at a gallop, then down a lane where we stopped for a piss against a brick wall, still laughing our socks off.

'Jesus,' I kept saying, gulping for air.' I'm gonna have to get fitter.'

'Ah bollocks,' said Davie.' Come on.'

He turned and walked further along the lane. I was drunk. I followed without asking. He opened a small wooden gate and led me down a garden path. He patted his pockets, clearly searching for a key.' Ah bollocks,' he said. He looked up at the kitchen window. The small top window was partially open.' Ah bollocks,' he said again, and climbed up onto the sill. He opened the small window fully, then reached down towards the larger one below.' Ah, bollocks,' he said, straining to reach the handle. But he got it and opened it and then manoeuvred himself through the window and into the kitchen. A moment later a light came on and he opened the back door.

'Enter,' he said, bowing, 'my humble abode. But . . .' and he put a finger to his lips '. . . Mother is sleeping.'

I nodded. I'd heard that his dad had died, but he hadn't mentioned it, so I hadn't either. This was a smaller house than he'd lived in when we'd been mates. Just a little terrace. He led me through the kitchen into the front room, flipping the light on as he went. It was small, but packed with dark wooden furniture and shelves full of china figurines.

'Now,' Davie whispered, 'let's organise a little drink, eh?'

He moved to a teak sideboard and began opening drawers. I stood somewhat ill-at-ease. I was out of practice with the drink. I felt like lying on the sofa for a doze, but knew that Davie wouldn't let me get away with it. He tutted as he crossed to a glass-fronted display cabinet in the opposite corner. I glanced at the photos on top of the sideboard. There were none of Davie. None that I could see of his mum. Probably relatives, but I didn't recognise or remember any of them, although I'd probably met a few of them at some point.

'Ah bollocks,' Davie hissed. He wasn't having any luck with the drink.' I'll try the kitchen.'

He walked past me and started opening cupboards there. I bent to a plastic box containing several dozen albums, and began to flick through them. Most of them were of Scottish pipe bands, my personal idea of hell, but each unto their own. Although I didn't remember his family being much into the whole Orange culture thing, it could easily have slipped my mind.

Then I heard footsteps coming from the stairs.

There's nothing as loud as two drunks trying to be quiet.

I steadied myself against a chair and prepared to make polite conversation with Davie's mum. I wondered how much she'd aged. She'd be in her seventies now, for sure, bent and grey, perhaps on a walking stick.

Except the woman who came through the hall door was in her forties at most; she had on a pink dressing-gown, curlers in her hair, and she was carrying a shotgun.

She said, 'I don't know who the fuck you fuckers are, but you better get outta my house or I'll blow your fucking arseholes off.'

I stared at her aghast for several moments, desperately waiting for her to break into a smile, to crack up at the great fright she'd given us. Or indeed
me,
as I heard the back door open and Davie take off screaming down the garden path.

'Okay,' I said. I started to back away.

'You're the worst fucking burglars I ever met,' the woman hissed.

'We're not burglars,' I said, reversing through the lounge doorway into the kitchen.

'Well, what the fuck are you then?' She jabbed the gun at me, as if it had a bayonet on the end.

'Pissed,' I said.

'Well fucking piss off then!'

I reached out blindly to find the kitchen door, then turned. She poked me in the back with the barrel.

'I know that fucker from around town, but I'll remember
you,
you fucken no-brain dickhead.'

I cleared my throat and stepped out into her back garden.

'I'll just er . . . dander on here.'

'You do that, arse face. And close the fucking gate!'

Davie was at the end of the lane, laughing his legs off. I said, 'Thanks a bunch. Thanks a fucking bunch.'

'Don't mention it.'

'She nearly shot my fucking balls off!'

'Ah bollocks, she wouldn't have done nothing.' He cackled.' You should see your face, mate, you're as white as a—'

And then he stopped. He sank to his knees, then turned abruptly and threw up into a hedge. Then again. Then again.

From somewhere in the distance, a man shouted, 'Why don't you go and boke on your own house, you fucker!'

When Davie had got up as much as he was going to get up, I helped him to his feet, and guided him out of the lane and back along the main street. I glanced warily back towards the house where we'd broken the window, but there was no sign of activity. Davie staggered sideways. I kept on his right, trying to stop him from falling off the path onto the road. There weren't many cars about in Groomsport at this time of night, but it only took one.

I'd known Davie was pissed, but thought he'd still be pretty much in control of himself. Now I remembered that he had always been like this: the life and soul one minute, completely comatose the next. I'd presumed he'd grown out of it, rather than into it.

'She's a fuckin' bitch,' Davie slurred.

'She was just worried about her house.'

'Not her, not fuckin' her.'

We staggered on a bit.

'Who then?' I said.' And where are we going?'

'My house. My house. Really. My house. Just up here.'

We turned a corner. Davie had forgotten what we were talking about. I'd confused him with two questions in one.' Who's a bitch?' I asked again.

'She is. My fuckin' girlfriend. My fuckin' fiancée.'

'Your fiancée?'

'Fiancée? Yeah, that's a laugh.'

'Davie, what are you talking about?'

I should have left it. I should have just let him slabber on, got him home, had a good night's sleep, woken up with a hangover, collected my car and gotten the hell out of there. I was past all this. I wasn't exactly grown-up myself, but I was more grown-up than Davie. I should have just shut my mouth there and then. Possibly none of the shit that happened later would have happened.

But I was — I am — a glutton for punishment.

'Davie — what friggin' fiancée?'

He stopped then and grabbed my shoulders, and for a moment I feared he was going to be sick over me. But he merely used me as leverage to push himself into a more erect position. He sucked in a lungful of the fresh sea air. The eyes seemed to rotate in his head for a moment, as if deciding whether to okay a complete collapse or grant a moment of clarity.

Clarity came through.

Davie squeezed my shoulders. For a few moments his eyes were as focused as mine. That is, partially.

'Joe Strummer is dead, Dan.'

'I know.'

'It's a tragedy.'

'I know, Davie.'

'Joe Strummer is dead and I was supposed to get married next week. But the cow's run off.'

Davie and a girl and marriage. It was the first mention of it all night.' Seriously?' I asked.

'Would I joke about something like that?'

'Yes, frankly.'

'Well, I'm not fuckin' jokin'. I'm not fuckin' jokin', Dan. She ran off.'

He shook his head, then slowly folded to the ground. He was sick again, then lay still on the pavement, his face inches from a puddle of boke. I tried to pick him up, but he was a dead weight.

'Davie,' I said, 'you gotta get up. You gotta get home.'

'Uuuuuugh . . .'

I sat down on the kerb. It was the sort of night a sailor would call fresh, and the rest of us fucking freezing. I pulled up my jacket collar and looked at Davie. My mate. I couldn't imagine him being married. Neither, apparently, could his fiancée.

I took out my mobile and phoned Trish.

'Is the car all right?' were her first words.

'Yes, the car's fine, and thanks for your concern.'

'It's the voice of experience, Dan. Where are you? What's wrong?'

'Nothing's wrong. I'm sitting on a kerb freezing my bollocks off.'

'Where's . . . Davie?'

'He's lying on the footpath, sleeping.'

'Right. I see. So why are you calling exactly?'

'For moral support, mainly. Am I within my rights to just leave him here? I can get a taxi home.'

'Don't even think about it,' Trish said firmly.' You're responsible for him.'

'But he's irresponsible.'

'Kettle, pot and black are three words that spring immediately to mind. Now if you don't mind, I'm trying to sleep. Get your act together, Dan, do the right thing. You know you can't be a dad if you can't decide what the right thing is without phoning someone in the middle of the bloody night for advice.'

She cut the line.

She was probably trying to make some kind of point, but it was lost on me. It was too cold to think. I was getting a sore head. I wanted a nice warm bed. And a cup of hot chocolate. I wanted a hug from my wife and some late movie to snuggle down to. I was getting old and I really didn't mind.

Fuck it.

I made another attempt, really put my heart and soul into it, and finally managed to hoist Davie onto his feet.' Come on, mate, come on, have to get you home.'

His legs went all floppy. But I held him up. I slapped at his face.' Come on, Davie, come on.'

Eventually, eventually, he started to come round. He mumbled incoherently for a bit as I led him further up the street.

'I need to know where you live. I need to know the house, Davie.'

'Isssabiginj usuphere.'

I led him on.

'I'm sorry,' he said, 'I'm really sorry.'