Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey)

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Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) Page 9

by Colin Bateman


  Jesus, we were on a fly-drive holiday in Florida. What was he scared of, alligators?

  I did what all grown men do in times of crisis. I phoned my wife, but the answer-machine was still on and I wasn't about to leave news about Davie's gun as a message. Mostly because she wouldn't believe me, she'd think I was just looking for sympathy. She'd lecture me about the boy who cried wolf and I'd say, 'But he got torn apart by wolves, don't you care?' and she'd say, 'Served him right.'

  I looked down at the gun. I looked down at the ammo.

  Davie had bought them after arriving in America: there was no way he could have smuggled them through security, either in Belfast or at Sanford. He'd gone out to a store somewhere in the vicinity of St Pete's Beach and bought a gun, just like that. You can do that in America. You can do it in parts of Belfast West as well, but that's another story.

  And then I realised.

  It was bloody obvious really.

  Davie had just been jilted by his girl. He was an ex-cop, he'd been forced out for drink-driving. Ulster is littered with bitter ex-cops who've spent their best years protecting us from the bad guys, but who now can't get new jobs because of their former employment. Depression is rife — and so is suicide.

  Christ, I'd come for a break, and now I was on suicide watch.

  There wasn't a girl at all. He was just at the end of his tether, driving around aimlessly or drinking by himself in an upmarket hotel, thinking of all the things he could have had, the women he might have married, depressing himself even further.

  I was really pissed off.

  We hadn't been friends for the best part of twenty-five years — and now he had dragged me halfway across the world just so that I could be around to clean up the mess when he blew his stupid head off. It would put a real dampener on my holiday.

  I opened one of the bottles of beer from the fridge. It was ice cold, just the way it should be, but somehow it didn't taste right. I was picturing Davie by himself in our hotel room drinking himself into a stupor then stumbling across to the bag — Dead Man Staggering — and pulling the gun out, loading it, putting it into his mouth, then pulling the trigger. Cue, brains on wall.

  Poor Davie.

  His mother at the funeral saying, 'But if you knew he had a gun, why didn't you do something about it?'

  I drained the bottle. It still didn't taste right, but it wasn't for wasting. I got another and looked at the gun some more. What was I supposed to do? Confront him with it? Say, 'What the hell are you playing at?' Try to talk him out of it? But if he'd come this far to end it and gone to this much trouble, then he wasn't going to be dissuaded by me. Patricia says I couldn't argue my way out of a paper bag. What if I wrote him a letter? Pen mightier than the sword, and all that.

  No.

  Davie was never much of a reader. He'd scan the first couple of lines, then tear it up and tell me to mind my own business.

  He wasn't down over Joe Strummer's death. He was down over his own.

  Or what if he wasn't depressed at all? Maybe he had some life-threatening illness. A huge tumour on the brain, or a wasting disease. Maybe he wanted to go out now while he still had possession of all his faculties.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe. There were too many. Certainly more than four. Only one person could answer all of my questions.

  Patricia couldn't, I couldn't, even the man I turned to in times of trouble, my old friend Mouse, couldn't. Only Davie.

  I wrapped the gun back up in the towel and squeezed it into his bag. I replaced the ammunition in the zip compartment. Then I lifted it and my own bag, removed the Walkman, two sets of underpants and a spare T-shirt and set them on my bed. Then I re-zipped my own bag and carried it and Davie's out into the hall. I walked down the corridor then waited until the Cuban was busy on a call, sitting down low behind the high reception desk so that he couldn't see me. I slipped past him and out into the car park. Davie had taken the car, so that was out. I continued on out to the footpath and walked about two hundred yards down the street, then crossed the road to a branch of the International House of Pancakes. Behind the restaurant there was a half-full dumpster. I checked I wasn't being watched, then hauled both bags into it. I turned and hurried back to the hotel; I put my underpants and T-shirt away, then collected my cool-bag and Walkman from the room, after which I went and sat out by the pool.

  Two hours later I was half-cut and the proud owner of about fifty thousand more freckles when Davie came hurrying up, all wide-eyed and breathless.

  'Dan — Dan . . . have you moved our bags?'

  'What?'

  'Have you moved our bags?'

  'What're you talking about? Sit down. Have a beer.'

  'Dan! Our bags are gone!'

  'Gone?'

  'Gone!'

  'Relax. The cleaners just probably moved them.'

  'They haven't. They've gone. We've had burglars. We've been burgled. Our bags are gone.'

  'Davie, for godsake, they can't just have—'

  'Well, get up off your arse and come and look!' He spun on his heel. I took another drink of my beer, then got up and followed.

  He was right. The bags were gone. I made a big show of searching the room. I cursed a lot. We marched down to see the Cuban together.

  'We've been burgled!'

  'Our bags have gone!'

  'What sort of an establishment are you running!'

  All the usual stuff. The Cuban followed us back to the room, as if a third pair of eyes would somehow reveal the missing bags. He tutted and cursed. He said, 'Are you sure they're not in your car?'

  'Of course they're not! We've been robbed.'

  'And what the hell are you going to do about it?' I said.

  He looked down at the door lock for signs of a forced entry. He sighed. 'I'm going to have to call the police.'

  'I should think so,' I said, but I was watching Davie for some kind of reaction — however he was nodding in support.

  The Cuban shook his head. 'Between you and me, guys, this isn't the first time. We're gonna have to take a long hard look at our staff.'

  'That's all very well, but what are we supposed to do?' Davie said. 'They've stolen our pants. Everything.'

  'You just follow me, sir. I'll call the police then you'll need to get a copy of their report, then you'll need to fax it to your insurance company. They'll handle it.'

  'But what are you going to do personally?' Davie asked.

  'On the pant front, and all the other stuff,' I added.

  'Well, sir, like I say, you should be covered by insurance. You weren't keeping anything of value in the bags? We do post a warning telling you to use our safety-deposit boxes for valuables. We don't accept responsibility for valuables being stolen.'

  It was debatable whether underpants qualified as valuable, but they were certainly important. That's why I'd stashed some. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, especially where there are girls involved. Davie would have to go commando until we got sorted out.

  The Cuban huffed and puffed some more. After about an hour two police officers arrived and noted down the relevant details, but they weren't particularly interested. When they'd gone we walked to a beachwear store across the road and bought some emergency supplies of loud shirts and flip-flops. I said, 'So we've been burgled. Don't let it get you down.'

  'Who's down?' Davie said. He managed a smile.

  But he was down, further down than any man should be. I'd just saved his life, of that I was sure. Perhaps it would cause him to think again, to re-evaluate his decision. To take it as a sign from God that he wasn't meant to end it all. Perhaps it would merely cause him to hide the gun somewhere better next time. Because there probably would be a next time.

  11

  What Davie needed was a good man-to-man talk. But where was I going to find a man he could talk to? There was only me; empathy and sensitivity and understanding are not my strong points. Never have been.

  Not unless there is drink involved.

  Drunk I
am a chameleon.

  Some drunks get maudlin, but I generally take off like a rocket when I've had enough, so maybe getting us both drunk was the solution. Sober, men rarely talk about anything other than football and war. Women, on the other hand, dissect their sex lives at the drop of a hat. And often when there isn't even a hat to be found, when they're standing on an escalator with a complete stranger or ordering those difficult-to-find support stockings over the phone.

  Davie had already booked us into the Holiday Inn restaurant. It was a circular effort at the top of one of the tallest hotels on the beach. There were stunning views out over the Gulf. They didn't blink twice when we strode in wearing our shorts and Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops, even though it was gone ten at night. The place wasn't busy, and the steaks were expensive, but what price can you put on a man's life, or indeed a good steak? We had a waiter as camp as a thousand Scouts but we didn't even take the piss, that's how serious we were. Davie sat with his chin in his hand. I ordered us two bottles of Bud each, together with a couple of chasers.

  'You're feeling flush.'

  'I thought we were splitting the bill?'

  He managed a smile.' Yeah, you wish. This is your treat.'

  'And why would that be?'

  'Because you scared the pants off me at the Don CeSar.'

  'Haven't you got that arse-about-face? I was looking through the women's bikinis.'

  He shrugged. The waiter brought our drinks. We lifted the chasers, clinked glasses and downed them.

  'So,' I said, 'what the hell were you up to anyway?'

  'I just . . . don't like being followed.'

  I gave him my hurt look. It's not much different from my normal look, just hurter. 'I thought we were mates, Davie. I saw you go in, thought I'd join you for a pint. I didn't mean anything.'

  He nodded slowly. 'I know. I'm just — you know, a bit paranoid. When you used to do what I used to do, you're always, like, watching your back.'

  'I thought you'd met a girl.'

  He shook his head. 'Yeah. I wish.'

  'When you say "when you used to do what I used to do", do you mean when you were a cop? Are they all as jumpy as you?'

  Davie glanced at the bar, then at a piano across to the left of it. Nobody was playing it. There was piped music. Marguerita Time. Later we would have to find the CD and smash it. But for now Davie leaned forward and said, 'No, Dan, all cops aren't like this. All cops didn't do what I did.'

  'And what did you do?'

  'Stuff.'

  'Well, that's a big help.'

  'I can't really talk about it. Besides, you're a journalist.'

  'Davie, we're mates. Anything you say is off the record.'

  'Yeah. Famous last words.'

  We'd already ordered our steaks, but now the waiter arrived with two salads, which American restaurants have a disturbing habit of bringing automatically as a starter. Davie and I looked at each other. For godsake, didn't he know we were from Ulster? We picked at them, looking for the meat. After a few minutes of grazing I went out to the toilet and ordered us some more drinks on the way. When I came back, Davie had moved to a different table. Not that far away, but a different table all the same. He was busy crushing his salad so that it would look as if he'd eaten quite a lot of it.

  I crossed to the new table and said, 'What's wrong?'

  'Nothing. Apart from this shit.'

  'Nothing's wrong?'

  'No. Why, something wrong with you?'

  'This table okay?'

  He nodded. 'Sure. Okay for you?'

  I nodded. Davie nodded, then said, 'It's good to have a chance to talk.'

  'Yes, it is,' I said.

  I wondered what was coming, whether he was going to spill his guts before I'd had the chance to enjoy my steak, or get really drunk. So he'd moved tables. He was entitled to be comfortable in his surroundings. The steaks were expensive enough. So I let it lie.

  'I'm sorry if I've been a bit off,' he said awkwardly. 'I'll settle down.'

  'You'd need to. It's a holiday, Davie, we should be having a ball.'

  'I know. But . . .' He sighed. He looked up to the bar again, then back to me. 'Can I talk to you about something personal?'

  Right. Here goes.

  'Of course.'

  'It's just, I've been a bit worried about you.'

  'About me?'

  'Yeah. It's best to be honest, isn't it? You know, are you okay?'

  'Me? Am I okay?'

  'Yeah. You've been a bit strange since we came away. You know, quiet. That first day out by the pool you were really reckless. I told you to put cream on but you just sat there getting drunk like you were determined to damage yourself. Like you wanted to feel the pain. And then all that time in the room by yourself. Drinking. And even when I'm lying there at night trying to sleep, you're flicking the TV channels until dawn; you've hardly slept. You know, I'm fucked up enough already without having to worry about you. That's why I've been going out by myself. That's why I've been driving around. I guessed you needed the space.'

  'Me?'

  'Dan, it's okay. We're mates. You can talk to me.'

  I nodded. I said, 'I need a pee.'

  I went to the toilet. I threw water on my face. My heart was beating hard and I'd that sick feeling in my stomach again. I wondered again what it was that Davie did in the police. Was it some kind of torture or interrogation he specialised in? Did he get hapless terrorists under the disco-lights at Castlereagh and grill them from dawn till dusk? Did he twist what they said? Did he get them to admit to things they couldn't possibly have done? What sort of game was he playing with me now? Me? Me? He was the one with the gun in his bag.

  When I finally emerged from the bathroom Davie had moved to a different table again, this time on the other side of the bar. He was tucking into his steak. He looked up and saw me and waved me over. I crossed the floor somewhat hesitantly. What was he playing at? I took my seat. He didn't say anything. Mind games. He was trying to mess with my head. My steak was looking pretty good. I cut myself the first piece off it, but then I put my knife and fork down and said: 'Bit too breezy for you over there, was it?'

  'What?'

  'I said, bit too draughty over there? Too near the kitchens?'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'What do you think I'm talking about?'

  'I've no idea. Eat up Dan, steak's great.'

  'Is it now? That's nice. Should I start, or are you going to up sticks again?'

  'What?'

  'You know, should I tuck in or should I lift my plate and walk over to the other side? I see there's some tables over there we haven't tried yet.'

  'Dan, what the fuck are you talking about?'

  'I'm talking about you, you Clampett.'

  'Dan, are you feeling okay? Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you, bringing up all that stuff. I spoke to Trish about it and—'

  'You spoke to Trish about what?'

  'About what happened. About Little Stevie. Grief manifests itself in different—'

  'Shut the fuck up, Davie.'

  He put his knife and fork down. 'Dan . . .'

  'Just shut the fuck up. It's got nothing to do with Little Stevie. That's low and mean. It's not me that's all fucked up. Now all I'm saying is, what is it with the tables? Why do you keep moving from one to another? What sort of fucking game are you playing? I don't mind talking to you, Davie. You can tell me anything you want — if you're happy or sad or you have problems or you're thinking of doing something really stupid, I'm your friend — but what is it with the fucking tables?'

  'It's a revolving restaurant, Dan.'

  'What?'

  'It's a revolving restaurant. I haven't moved tables. The restaurant has just revolved.'

  'Eh?'

  'Look out the window, Dan. You see the way we can't see the Gulf any more, but we're looking out over St Pete's? That's because we've moved. They haven't moved the Gulf, they've moved the restaurant. It's revolving. Look at the floor, Da
n. You see those tracks? That's where it moves — that's how the restaurant moves.'

  I cleared my throat. 'You never told me it was a revolving restaurant.'

  'I didn't think I needed to. Why else would I bring you to a fucking Holiday Inn to eat? And I thought you might have noticed the big sign, The Holiday Inn Revolving Restaurant. But no.'

  'We're revolving. It doesn't feel like we're revolving.'

  'No, Dan, it doesn't feel like we're revolving. Because we're not on a fucking spinning top. It's gradual. You'd hardly notice. Correction, you wouldn't notice at all.'

  'Oh,' I said. Then added, 'Sorry. Now I'll eat my steak.'

  That was about as personal as the conversation got. He talked some more, but not about anything of consequence. It certainly wasn't the time to raise the subject of the gun or his suicide. I'd made a tube of myself over the revolving restaurant, but it was an easy mistake to make. I've been in revolving restaurants before, but it's usually a by-product of too much alcohol. So I concentrated on getting hammered and repairing fences. He didn't raise his distorted view of my personal problems again. We talked about Joe and girls and music and girls; he seemed to be in better form.

  It was only a few hundred yards back to the hotel. When we entered reception the two cops from earlier were standing at the desk talking to the Cuban, who saw us first.

  'Gentlemen!' he exclaimed as the cops turned towards us. 'Good news! Your bags have been found!'

  Davie immediately clapped his hands together. 'Excellent!'

  The larger of the two cops smiled and said: 'Chef at the IHOP found them in a dumpster out back. Had your ID tags still on board.'

  The Cuban lifted them out from behind the desk.' Look! Good as new!' They were stained and smelled of dumpster, but he wasn't far wide of the mark.

  One of the cops said, 'Sir, if we could just take them to your room then you could check and see if anything's missing.'

  I lifted my bag off the counter. Davie took his. He was going to have to be careful when he checked the bag. The cops followed us up to our room and I unlocked the door at the third attempt. We were still pretty drunk. They grinned at each other.

  'Now if you could just check those bags for us.'

 

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