Ejaculate.
And I did.
There and then in the snow.
And there and then in the room.
'Fuck,' I said then, as she said, 'What? What's wrong?'
'Someone's coming.'
There was, and I had. But she never knew.
And now I'd come again, thinking back twenty-four years and it was wonderful then and it was wonderful now.
And then I remembered the cup.
I remembered that I'd forgotten the cup.
That I'd made a fucking mess everywhere and I'd forgotten the god-damn cup. What the hell was I supposed to do now?
Jesus Christ.
What sort of a bloody idiot . . .
God . . . Christ . . . I hobbled in my half-mast trousers to the bathroom and soaked a towel. I rubbed at my trousers, I rubbed at the seat, I rubbed at the floor. Christ. I looked at my watch — twenty-five minutes. I was getting into 'we'd better check on him, he might have had a coronary' territory. I rubbed and I rubbed and I rubbed until no one but a crack police forensics team or a moron could tell the difference. Thirty-two minutes.
What the hell was I supposed to do now?
I was forty years old.
I couldn't just produce another cupful like that.
It would take at least thirty-seven minutes, and probably a doze, then a bit of a walk and a ham sandwich.
I wasn't fucking Superman.
And even if I did produce another dribble, they'd be weak and tired, barely interested, forced out under sufferance, not the Gold Medal swimmers we needed to progress with the surrogacy. I'd be humiliated. My sperm count would hardly register. They'd fail their O-levels. They'd get a must try harder stamp from the nurse. The pretty nurse would be grinning so hard she'd split the top of her head off.
Bloody hell.
What was I going to tell Trish? Here for possibly the most important, relationship-defining day of our lives, when all I had to do was concentrate for five minutes, and look what I'd done, and look where I'd done it.
Christ.
Thirty-seven minutes.
Soon the SAS would come swinging through the windows to rescue me.
I would have to think of something.
Something now.
A migraine.
A stroke.
The nurse grinning.
Christ.
I pulled up my trousers and hurried to the door. I unlocked it and peered into the corridor. It was empty. Directly across from me there was a shelf with a small door behind it where I was supposed to leave my sample. I heard footsteps and ducked back into the room, leaving the door open just enough to see a nurse — a different nurse — hurry past.
Patricia — I have good news, and I have bad news.
The good news is, ejaculation was no problem.
The bad news is, if you want to count it, you'll have to get down on your hands and knees.
What was I like?
I had always brought shame on my family — through no fault of my own, of course, except in cases of extreme stupidity — but this brought it to an entirely new level.
I had sworn on our most recent reconciliation to be honest with Patricia at all times.
That if I strayed, or put our house on a horse, or gave her tacky ornaments to Oxfam with instructions to smash them, then I could and would be brutally honest. But this? How could I tell her this without utterly humiliating myself? I wouldn't be able to hold my head up even in my last refuge, my own house. And even if she stuck with me, even if she swore never to tell a soul, it would get out there. These things always came out. She'd get drunk and tell my friends. And they'd all snigger into their cocktails and they'd tell their friends and it would soon evolve into an urban myth.
I peered out into the corridor again.
This time a male nurse was coming past. I had to do something. I had to do something quick. He was a big fella, six foot at least, squarely built. I hissed across at him, 'Hey, mate, c'mere a minute.'
He turned towards me. Close-cropped hair and small, inquisitive eyes. He came over.
'Listen,' I began, not really sure where I was going.' I'm in a bit of a hole. I'm . . . look, my son died . . . we're desperate to have another kid. We came here to get help . . . You know what this room is? The quiet room. You know what the quiet room is — of course you do. I've . . . Christ, look, mate I've had a bit of an accident, and I can't go back there and say . . . like, what do you say? I just can't go back and look like a total eejit. I was like wondering . . . do you know where I'm going? Do you understand what I'm saying?'
'No,' he said.
'Look, it's quite simple. I need you . . . I'd like you . . . Look, mate, no strings attached, I know it's kind of odd, I'm not a weirdo, I'm just really stuck. I'm too old for this, I can't just produce it like . . . I really need some help.'
'What sort of help?'
'I need you to come in here and wank into a cup.'
His eyes widened slightly, then narrowed again. I could almost hear the clogs turning in his brain. Or perhaps cogs. He glanced up and down the corridor, then moved slightly closer.
'What sort of a cup?'
'What?'
'What sort of a cup do you want me to wank into?'
'What do you mean? What the fuck does it matter?'
'You mean like a big cup, like a pint glass, or a wee one, like an egg cup?'
'What the fuck does it matter?!'
'I'd just like to know.'
'I'm inviting you in here to masturbate and you're worried about what sort of a cup you'll have to wank into? What sort of a fucking mental are you?'
'Please yourself, mate,' he said, and started to turn away.
'No! I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' He stopped.' Look — okay. Okay — it's a small plastic cup. Please. This is so important.'
He turned back.' How much?'
'How much? How the fuck do I know. A cupful? Half a cup?'
'No — I mean how much are you paying?'
'Paying?'
'I'm not going in there to wank into a cup for nothing.'
'Well — fuck, how much do you want?'
'A hundred.'
'Quid?'
'Yes.'
'Okay. All right. That seems fair.' I took out my wallet. Luckily, and rarely, I had enough.' Fifty now, and fifty when you deliver.'
'A hundred now.'
'What if you don't deliver?'
I'll work at it until I do.'
I looked at my watch. Forty-four minutes.
'All right — deal. Come on.'
I ushered him into the room. I showed him the bathroom and I picked up the porn mags.' Here,' I said, 'this might help.'
He held up a hand to refuse them.' That's not what I'm into.'
I nodded. He closed the door. He locked it. I gave him two minutes.
'Everything okay?' I said.
'Yes.'
'Are you going to be long?'
'Not if you shut up.'
'Okay. Fine. I'll . . . just sit over here.'
It would be okay, everything would be okay. I could explain it away to Trish. I was nervous. The antiseptic surroundings of the hospital. She would somehow perceive it to be a compliment to her that I was unable to do it without her being with me. It was only a sample they were looking for. It wasn't as if they were going to match it up with Patricia's eggs. It was just to check the sperm count. He would have a fine and healthy sperm count. It wasn't like he was some albino dwarf. He was a strapping big guy with normal sperm.
What was I even thinking of?
Christ.
I should crack the door open and toss him out of there for being such a pervert.
What sort of a guy goes into a room and wanks for money?
And what sort of a guy asks him to?
I buried my head in my hands.
From inside the bathroom, he said, 'Oh baby.'
I blushed. I really blushed.
He said, 'Oh, baby . . .'
I c
leared my throat.
He said, 'Give it to me.'
Then he cranked up the volume, 'give it to me!' he bellowed.
Christ.
And then my mobile phone rang.
I pulled it out, fearing it was Trish. But I didn't recognise the number. I pressed the button. Before he, she or it could speak there came a:
'HARDER. HARDER.'
I swallowed and said, 'Hello?'
'Dan?'
'OOOOH YES!'
I cleared my throat.' Yes.'
'Dan, it's Davie.'
'OOH YES. YES. YES!'
I cleared my throat again.' Davie?'
'Yes, Davie.'
'Davie?'
'Davie, Davie.'
'GIVE IT TO ME, GIVE IT TO ME HARD.'
'Davie Kincaid?'
'Yes, Davie Kincaid.'
'Davie Kincaid? The Davie Kincaid?'
'OOOOH YES!'
'Yes, Dan. How're you doin'?'
'I'm . . . fine. Davie Kincaid? But I haven't—'
'I know, Dan, it's donkey's years. But I had to call. As soon as I heard, I had to call.'
'OOH yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!'
'Dan, is this a bad time? There seems to be—'
'No, it's fine. We just . . . we have the painters in.'
'Are they having sex?'
'No. They're just . . . admiring their work. They're doing a mural, you see. But what do you mean "as soon as you heard"?'
'You haven't heard?'
'I don't know what I haven't heard, Davie. Davie Kincaid. My God.'
'He's dead.'
'Who's dead?'
'Strummer.'
'Strummer?'
'Joe's dead, Dan. I had to call. He's gone. It was just on the news. Of all the people in all the world, I had to call you.'
'Joe?'
'Joe.'
'But he's only . . .'
'I know, Dan.' His voice was shaky.
'Davie.' Christ Almighty, so was mine. Joe Strummer. Rock'n'roll. Bottles of cider on the beach, pogo-ing madly, parties, gigs, fanzines, singles, spiked hair, anarchy, gobbing, missing the last bus home, forming bands, posing with sunglasses, writing lyrics, wailing into a mike, trying to learn a chord, abusing people wearing cords, flares, big permed hair, being attacked for wearing drainpipes, being chased by Rockers, throwing up, sniffing Poppers, having just the best time of our lives. And all traced directly back to Joe. It was just miserable to know that he was dead. And then the tears came. It was just the most shocking, horrible news I could think of.
'Dan, are you okay?'
'Yes . . . yes. It's just — devastating.'
'I know . . . I know. I knew you'd understand. Everyone round here's looking at me like I'm a head the ball. But Strummer. Jesus.'
I tried to wipe at my tears but they kept coming.
Then there was a knock on the door.
'Mr Starkey? Is everything all right?'
'Yes!' It wasn't a shout, it was a wail.
Strummer was dead.
'Are you sure?'
The nurse didn't wait for an answer; I heard a key in the door, and it opened inwards. She was standing there looking concerned, her mouth open, her eyes wide. Patricia was standing behind her, looking perplexed, but not, I later thought, unduly surprised. And I was standing there, with my zip down, my trousers slightly damp, tears tripping me.
From the bathroom, my new friend bellowed: 'GIVE ME YOUR BIG COCK! YESSSSS!'
I swallowed. I raised the phone again.' I'm going to have to call you back, Davie,' I said.
3
Davie. Big Davie Kincaid.
Davie was six foot two before he was fifteen years old, a lanky big fella who could get served in off-licences years before anyone else in our crowd but always went bright red when a girl talked to him. For two years from the summer of 1977, he was my best mate. My parents, in one of their rare moments of adventure, had moved the fifteen miles down from Belfast into a seaside village called Groomsport in search of a quiet life. I was fifteen years old and full of testosterone, hormones, spunk and punk and it was like moving to another world. I was a product of the rough tough streets of Belfast; Groomsport on the other hand had some rather nice cul-de-sacs. The nearest it had to a paramilitary organisation was the Boys' Brigade. It was my particular claim to fame that I introduced punk rock to Groomsport. Before my arrival it had been a tasteless wasteland of showbands and Genesis; within a week it was dancing to Richard Hell and The Voidoids. The local youth club grooved to Patrick Hernandez and 'Born to be Alive'. Within a week I'd kids pogo-ing to The Stranglers' 'No More Heroes'. It was a mini-me version of 'Anarchy in the UK' and I loved it; it was a great time to be alive, and the perfect time to get beaten up.
Because of course there was the slightly older generation, into Queen and Zeppelin, who felt threatened by punk — dinosaurs staring into the pit of their own destruction. Actually they were just pissed off by spotty-faced drunks causing a racket. Either way, they'd chase us and nail us from time to time, but it didn't put us off or slow us down. Me and Davie would sail into The Stables, the biggest local bar, every Saturday night without fail, looking like twin clones of Sid Vicious, and order our pints. We'd be refused, because I looked about twelve. Then we'd fire off the verbal abuse and we'd be thrown out.
'Two pints of Harp, mate.'
'How old are you?' Vernon the barman would ask.
'Nineteen.'
'Date of birth?'
'Thirteenth of the sixth I960.'
They wouldn't even bother to work it out.
'ID?'
'I'm nineteen, right?'
'Sorry, son, try again when you've got some bum-fluff on your cheeks.'
And the whole bar would laugh.
'Fuck you, you fat cunt!' Davie would shout, dipping into his Penguin Book of Oscar Wilde Epigrams.
'Out!'
'Yeah, you and whose army?'
Well, actually, him and most of the bar would throw us out.
It was a ritual.
We always had an ace up our sleeve — the off-licence round the corner where Davie would get served those big flagons of Olde English cider. We'd take them down to the park and sit with our little shoe-box cassette player and get completely pissed listening to The Clash and The Buzzcocks and Belfast bands Protex, Ruefrex and Rudi. Then we'd call for Karen.
Ah now, to be fifteen again.
Karen Malloy was fifteen, going on twenty-one, the most beautiful girl either of us had ever seen. We were both totally in love, smitten, in lust; and because we were both too shy to ask her out, or to face the absolute certainty of a humiliating rejection, we did what teenage boys have always done: we hung around, annoying her. Where she went, we went; where she played, we played; when she went to school, we were there at the bus stop, when she came off her bus, we were idling nearby; when she took her spaniel for a walk we went too, trailing behind like we were in heat — and we were; it was the only exercise either of us got. We shadowed her to church, we followed her home; her parents called the cops on us half a dozen times for loitering outside her house, but it didn't stop us. And looking back, I don't think we ever even spoke to her. The occasional, 'Hi,' maybe. She had short blonde hair, thin lips, a big smile; we followed her into Unicorn Records once and saw her buy an Electric Light Orchestra album, but we dismissed that as pure innocence we would soon correct. The interesting thing was that we both pursued her with never any talk about what we'd do if she did happen to take an interest, as if somehow she would want to go out with both of us at the same time rather than split us up. Or she would make her choice, and Davie would go off and commit suicide, and I wouldn't mind in the slightest because I was going out with Karen Malloy. But she was never going to go out with us. I think we knew that, deep down. We just couldn't give her up. We thought that by hanging around her we would grow on her. That she would see us for the wonderful, dynamic, funny boys we thought we were.
I remember one night, we went round to her house af
ter midnight and threw stones at her bedroom window. Of course we were pissed at the time. We missed completely and cracked the next door's glass. We took off, cackling. We were still laughing about it in the park when the neighbour caught up with us. We debated briefly whether to make a fight of it, but decided to be meek and apologetic instead; the fact that she was seventy years old and on a walking stick meant that we probably would have won the fight, but then be lynched by her family. She'd been down the pub for a drink and was hobbling home when she happened upon us smashing her window.
So we said sorry.
'Sorry, missus.' She didn't seem too put out, actually.
'You boys are always hanging around.'
We shrugged.
'It's Karen, isn't it?'
We shrugged.
'You're like sticking plasters.'
We shrugged.
Davie, emboldened by drink, said: 'She's the most beautiful girl I've ever met.'
'You've never met her,' I pointed out.
'She is beautiful,' the old woman said.' Up to a point.'
'What're you talking about, up to a point?'
She smiled benevolently at Davie. She took a seat on one of the swings in the children's playground she'd cornered us in. She put her hand out and Davie was confused for a moment, then the penny dropped and he gave her the flagon. She took a long drink of the sweet alcohol. She wiped her hand across her mouth.' Ah,' she said, 'that takes me back.'
Davie winked at me.' Don't fancy yours much,' he whispered.
'Any port in a storm,' I replied, and probably meant it.
'Anyway,' Davie said, 'what shite are you talking about — "she's beautiful, up to a point"?'
The old woman explained: 'She's a nice kid, and yes all right, she's pretty enough. But lads — I see you hanging around her all the time and she's not the slightest bit interested. She's fifteen. Fifteen-year-old girls don't want fifteen-year-old boys. They want older boys. Believe me, I know.'
We looked at our feet. She was speaking the truth, we knew it.
'Besides, she's only beautiful in Groomsport.'
'What the fuck are you talking about now?' Davie snapped.
'Listen to me. Look at this place. Groomsport. About a thousand people. And in a place this size, yes, she's considered beautiful. But go a mile down the road to Bangor, put her in with the girls there, she'd merely be good-looking. Go ten miles up the road to Belfast, and what's considered good-looking in Bangor would be merely okay, maybe even plain. And send her to London, they'd think she'd been beaten with the ugly stick.'
Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) Page 2