Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) (16 page)

We wandered up and down the beach looking at the girls. When we started out, Davie began to walk in the direction of the Don; I made sure to turn him around and walk the other way, which he accepted with a wry 'can't blame a boy for trying' smile. The beach was lovely, the sand was warm, the sea was cool, the girls were beautiful, apart from the huge ones and the ancient reptiles with leather skin. We had a debate about thongs and came to the conclusion that they were last year's thing. After half an hour of cruising, we flopped back down on the sand outside the Del Mar. Davie opened his cool-bag and got each of us a beer. We lay back on the sand and looked up at the sky. We watched the same thing: someone was up there, parasailing, a tiny blot against the big blue.

Davie jabbed a finger up towards him. 'There, that's what we should do.'

'Aye, that's right.'

'No. I'm serious. What's that, about a thousand feet up? Views'll be magnificent.'

'As Oscar Wilde said, you can stick your views up your hole.'

'Ah, come on, man. Where's your sense of adventure?'

'Tucked up in bed where it belongs, thank you.'

'Look at it. The peace. The quiet.'

'The danger. The death.'

'I'll go and check out the price.'

He was up and scampering away across the sand to the bleach-blond beach bum in the kiosk before I could say, 'Stop or I'll kill you.'

I stared up at the sky, and then down to the sea. It was a long way. One man with a parachute attached to a speedboat by a piece of string; outer space above him, water full of sharks, stingrays and little fishies below him. It wasn't peace and tranquillity, it was sheer bloody terror.

Davie came bounding back after five minutes. 'Struck a deal. Usually it's fifty bucks each, but they'll do the two of us for that. Business is slow.'

'That's because people keep dying.'

'Would you ever wise up? They haven't lost anyone this week yet.' He punched my arm. 'Come on, Dan!'

'I hate things like that. Dangerous.'

'It's not dangerous! Get a grip! Come on!' He lifted his cool-bag and started walking down to the sea. 'Come on!'

He had supported me and my decision, now I had to show some gumption and fall in with something he wanted to do which didn't involve murder. So, very much against my better judgment, I followed. When I was a thousand feet up and about to die I would scream, 'See, I told you it was dangerous!' which would look good on my gravestone, although of course there'd be no actual body beneath it, because the sharks would have eaten it. Or the little fishies.

We cooled our heels at the edge of the water for ten minutes until the speedboat came in. The bleach-blond beach bum stood with us, but didn't say much. He didn't try to sell us any drugs, which was a pity because it was one of the few times I'd ever needed them. He did smile at me once and say, 'You're as white as a ghost.'

'And that's with the tan,' Davie commented.

'Don't worry,' said the BBBB. 'We haven't lost anyone this week yet.'

I gave him my steely grin. I wondered how many times he'd said it in his short sandy life.

The speedboat came in within a few feet of the beach and dropped a short ladder, and the last poor sucker they'd sent into space climbed down.

'How was it?' Davie asked.

'Fantastic!'

He was a boy of about fourteen. He scurried off up the beach, yelling, 'Dad! I want to go again!'

I swallowed and waded out after Davie to the ladder. Eager hands pulled me up. There was a pilot, and someone to look after the harness, parachute and line. Davie had been offered the option of a photographer for an extra twenty bucks, but I finally put my foot down. I had this image of the bodies plunging out of the Twin Towers after it was struck — you wouldn't wish those photos on your worst enemies. Davie finally conceded a point, and we set off.

The sea was calm.

I wasn't.

The harness guy said, 'There's nothing to worry about.'

I nodded, and gagged.

Davie said, 'I'll go up first, all right, mate?'

I wasn't going to argue. I kept one eye on the rapidly disappearing beach. I wondered how long it would take me to swim back there, and then how long it would take me to learn to swim.

'Way-hey!' Davie shouted with glee as he lifted off the small platform at the front of the boat. 'Way-fucking-hey!' he yelled as he gradually began to rise, the parachute billowing out above him. His ascent seemed slow and contained, but within thirty seconds he was up there, right up there, a thousand feet above the ocean, closer to the moon than any man I'd ever had a pint with. His 'way-fucking-heys' faded into nothing, there was only the pulse of the speedboat, the flap of the waves and the beat of my heart, which was loudest of them all.

After five minutes the harness guy said, 'Okay, let's bring him in.'

'Is that it?' I said. It was the only good news I'd had this decade.

The harness guy smiled and nodded. The pilot shouted, 'Any longer and the lack of oxygen could kill you.'

He was bull-shitting. I knew that, even though he kept his face straight. Ridiculous. Everest was higher and they'd climbed that all right.

Davie landed perfectly, all beams and smiles. 'You'll love it! You'll love it!'

They removed his harness and strapped me into it. There was a little plastic seat to sit on, there was a life-jacket, there was a thick cable to keep me tethered to the speedboat. Nothing could possibly go wrong. Davie clapped me on the back and said, 'It's fantastic, you'll have a ball.'

They were just about to release the parachute behind me. I shouted at Davie: 'If anything happens, tell Patricia I love her.'

He came as close as he could and said: 'You'll be fine.'

'Can I have that in writing?'

He smiled at me for a moment, then abruptly it faded. He came close and suddenly hugged me. 'I love you, man,' he said.

My mouth dropped open slightly. 'Davie . . .'

'And sometimes a man's got to do what a man's got to do.'

'Toffo,' I said as a matter of reflex. It was an old TV ad featuring a cowboy about to . . . 'Davie?' I said.

But he turned and nodded to the harness guy. Then there was a sudden lurch, and before I could think about what Davie meant I was off the edge of the boat and rising. At least part of me was. My stomach was still back on the platform. I managed a very half-hearted, 'Way-heh,' just to show that I was a good sport.

I was rising, rising, rising, just like the bile in my throat.

The speedboat was already Matchbox size. I was closing in on a thousand feet.

And then, suddenly, it was okay. It was fine. The bile sank, my spirits soared. I was flying. Floating. I was safe. It was truly breathtaking. Beautiful. Completely quiet. Surprisingly calm. Look at me, King of the World. I wanted to phone Trish and tell her how much I loved her and suggest that perhaps I should have a career change and volunteer for the Parachute Regiment. I could jump with my 'chute three or four times a week, when I wasn't busy shooting civilians.

There was another lurch, and I didn't even blink. A bit of turbulence. So what? I could deal with that. I was
Dan Dare.
They could tell I was doing well below, because they were cutting me a bit more slack, I was floating higher. Funny how you can meander through life without ever being aware that there are other things out there besides drink and arguments. But there I was, not only literally, but metaphorically, on a higher plane. I could see why people believed in God or Van. I could see where the hippies were coming from. Peace, man!

Davie, you were right, this is great!

I gave him a wave.

In fact, I would have given him a wave if he'd been down there. If the boat had been down there.

But he wasn't, and it wasn't."

It was racing back towards the beach.

The line was cut and I was floating helplessly in the sky.

In fact, not floating.

I was now drifting.

It was not a windy day, but I was still drifting further and further from the beach. No, not the beach — the
coast.
That's how far out I was. Next stop Hawaii. But no, I was descending as well. The boat was disappearing and I was slowly coming down towards the water.

I couldn't understand it.

Had there been an accident?

Were they rushing to get help?

No, of course not. If they needed help they would radio for it; they were all equipped up for that. The inescapable conclusion was that someone had deliberately cut the line. And that someone was Davie.

Sometimes a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.
I'd dismissed it as Davie taking the piss over my fears about going up, but now I knew different. I could see that the speedboat was now close to the beach and that a figure was wading ashore. It was Davie. I recognised the blue canvas cool-bag and realised as soon as he turned towards the Don CeSar why he'd kept it so close to him all morning; the gun was inside it.

But at that moment, I really didn't care.

The sea had looked calm and lovely and blue from way up there, but now I was coming down on it fast. I may have had on a life-jacket, but I couldn't swim. I was half a mile out to sea and the water was teeming with many interesting varieties of marine life intent on eating me.

I hit the water hard.

It seems stupid to say that, water being hard; it wasn't, of course, but it was cold and deep and as much a shock to the system as hitting a concrete wall. The parachute folded in around me and the water surged over it and began to suck it down, and even with the life-jacket I was dragged down with it. I plucked at the harness, trying to release the catches, but my fingers were shaking and at first I couldn't work them loose; my mouth and eyes were full of water. I was being buried at sea, I had an appointment in Davy Jones's Locker, a lunch date with Sponge Bob or Square Pants.

The catches came loose. The parachute wasn't sucking me down. It had settled on the surface of the water. It was now just a case of floating out from under it. I couldn't swim for toffee, but I could kick my legs. I wasn't drowning. I was panicking.

I emerged shaken, stirred, and got smacked in the face by a wave. I coughed and spluttered and then drank another one. They weren't particularly high, they were just constant. I bobbed as best as I could.

They wouldn't leave me like this.

They
couldn't
leave me like
this.

My God, it would be dark in another six hours.

I hated the water. It was dark and scary.

A million possibilities raced through my head, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine to do with sharks, the other to do with the fact that Davie had paid them to fake an accident and was now hurrying along the beach to kill The Colonel. That he had felt the need to do it this way, when he could just have gotten me drunk and left me sleeping. He
was
barking.

And I was crying, because something touched my feet.

Something
nudged
me.

Something
big.

I'd been in the water for less than ten minutes, but already the word was out.

It touched me again.

My legs flailed.

If I had any legs.

Perhaps it was just the nerve-endings reacting like they were still there, whereas some shark was already off, putting them in a bap for lunch.

There was no blood that I could see. Probably because a million little piranhas were greedily sucking it out of my stumps.

Nudge.

Fuck!

I had a glimpse of fin. Then another. Cutting through the waves close by. Christ. A herd. A school. A whole fucking pile of sharks coming to fight over me!

I screamed and screamed. I didn't want to die like this. I didn't want to die at all, but this was definitely my least favoured option.

I thought of Trish and never being able to hug her or bicker with her again. I thought of Little Stevie and his gurgles and his first words and the bill for the little white coffin I had repeatedly failed to pay.

I thought of Joe dying at fifty. I thought of great rock'n'roll and how it made you feel alive.

And that was where I wanted to be.

Alive.

I would not let them just fucking eat me! I would not go without a fight! I had some pride!

I started to thrash out all around me. I pummelled the water with my fists, I kicked with my feet or my nerve-endings. I screamed and screamed and screamed.

'Come and get me, you fuckers! I'm not scared of you! Come and get me! I see you! Come on!'

Nudge, nudge.

Please God, just make it quick.

And then suddenly there were hands on my shoulders, and I was being hoisted up into a boat — a different boat. A bleach-blond of a slightly different hue pulled me over the side and laid me down while I yelled, 'My legs, my legs!'

'You're okay, you're fine, settle down.'

'My legs . . . Oh thank God, thank Christ.' I counted them. I counted them again. I checked inside my shorts. Everything present and correct. I sat up, then threw my arms around the blond and said, 'Thank you so much, you saved my life!'

He said, 'No worries. The other boat called me in, said they'd had an accident with your chute.'

I sat up on the deck, breathing hard. I was drained and elated at the same time. I put my hand out to my saviour. 'Really. You're brilliant. I could have died.'

He kind of shrugged, then shook my hand.

'No problem,' he said. 'Though next time, try to avoid punching the dolphins. We depend on them for a living. They'll report you to their union.'

He winked, let go of my hand, then turned to steer the boat back towards land.

My rescuer was called Konrad and I promised him I would name my next child after him. This seemed to satisfy him. Plus the soggy fifty-dollar tip I fished out of my shorts. He brought the speedboat up close to shore and I jumped off. The other boat was floating empty on a short anchor just a few yards away, but as I waded ashore the pilot, the harness man and the bleach-blond beach bum came hurrying panic-stricken down the sand towards me.