Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) (8 page)

'You're okay,' I said.

'It gets really boring after about an hour!' Davie yelled. 'They've all got inflatable tits!'

'You're paying for them. You do know that?'

He didn't answer, but the TV suddenly went off. A few moments later he appeared in the doorway pulling his T-shirt back on. 'We should go and get breakfast,' he said.

'It's the middle of the night.'

'So? This is America! Come on!'

Davie was an enthusiast.

I would hate enthusiasts with a passion if only I could summon one. As International Vice-Chairman of Sloth and Slow pic, I fixed him with two weary eyes and said, 'Catch yourself on, I'm knackered.'

He laughed. 'Come on, Dan, we're on holiday!' He pushed his T-shirt into his trousers and headed for the door. 'Come
on!'

I moved into a more comfortable position on the couch.

'C'mon, Dan, you're only young once.'

'You're right,' I said. 'And I was. Good night.'

I closed my eyes. He tutted. 'Sure?'

'Sure.'

He opened the door. 'Well, see you later, alligator.'

'In a while . . .'

But I was asleep before I got to 'crocodile'. Or at least I pretended to be.

And I did get to sleep, eventually. I woke just after ten in the morning. The sun was blinding. I showered. I phoned Patricia at home and exchanged words of love. At the end she said, 'See you in two weeks,' and I didn't have the heart to correct her. And maybe it would be two weeks. Maybe it would only be one week. Davie was already showing the energy levels of a teenager, or speed freak. Or both. I put on my summer gear — black T-shirt, black jeans and sunglasses — and went to find breakfast.

Davie was already in there, eating an omelette. He was hollow-eyed and stubbled, but he smiled with real warmth and said, 'What aboutcha, big lad?'

'Great,' I said. 'What about you?'

'Fantastic.'

I sat down opposite him and folded my arms over the placemat. There were words printed all over it, but they were too difficult to read with my sunglasses on, and my sunglasses were too difficult to take off with my hangover head on. Davie reached into his pocket and produced a set of car keys. He set them down on the table.' Have wheels, will travel,' he said.

'Brilliant,' I said, as the waitress approached and poured coffee for me without asking.

'How do you like your eggs?' she asked.

'Fertilised,' I said, but it was an in-joke.

She said, 'Excuse me?'

I wasn't entirely sure of the terminology. Americans like variations in their food and drink; they have a thousand different ways of serving coffee, whereas we have black or white. It's the same with their eggs. All that over easy and sunny side up shit. I looked her in the eye and said, 'I'd like them oops outside your head, I said oops outside your head.'

She said, 'Excuse me?'

I said, I'll have Frosties.'

She said, 'Excuse me? Do you mean Frosted Flakes?'

'That's what I mean.'

'And how would you like your eggs?'

I sighed.

She looked pained. I ran up the flag of surrender and said I'd pass on the eggs. I could tell by her eyes that even if she got satisfaction on the eggs front she'd immediately move onto the even more complicated ham or bacon argument; then we'd get to discuss whether I wanted pancakes or biscuits or sausage and biscuits or pancakes and syrup and sausage or French toast or white or rye and then I would ask for Veda and she would look like I'd slapped her in the face and Davie would have to intervene and explain it was a Northern Irish baker's delicacy and not a sexually transmitted disease, although not before I'd committed suicide. America. Big traffic. Big noise. Big breakfast.

She eventually went away. There would have been smoke coming out of her ears, but smoke had been banned in Floridian restaurants.

'Guess who got out of the wrong side of bed,' Davie said.

I shook my head and smiled. I had a hangover, sure, but I wasn't upset. I was frustrated by choice. 'She should have given me a fucking menu,' I said.

'She did.' He nodded down. The placemat was the menu, I could see that now. I thought briefly about apologising to the waitress, then didn't. It's the thought that counts. Besides, I'd other, more important things to deal with.

I said, 'Seeing as how neither of us have a driving licence, where'd you find someone buck eejit enough to hire us a car?'

'I didn't,' Davie said. 'I bought it.'

'You bought it?'

'Nineteen eighty-five Dodge. Seventy-five thousand miles, five hundred dollars. You owe me two-fifty and I'll throw in the gas.'

I lifted the keys. They were rusty. 'You never thought of consulting me before buying? You never thought of asking me if I wanted to invest two hundred and fifty dollars in a car?'

'It's not an investment, Dan. You hope to profit from an investment. Look on this more as a donation to charity, plus we get to ride around in it until it gives up the ghost. One saying and one motto come to mind. "Beggars can't be choosers", and "never look a gift horse in the mouth".'

I sighed. I shook my head across the table at Davie's big grinning face. He looked so pleased with himself.

'Okay,' I said. I would let it ride. I didn't ask about insurance. There didn't seem much point. It felt somehow unAmerican to have insurance anyway. I couldn't remember a movie where Vin Diesel refused to partake in a high-speed chase until he'd checked his insurance documents. I couldn't recall Indiana Jones arguing over the finer points of his third party fire and theft policy.

'Good man,' he said. 'This'll be class, Dan. This'll be class.'

'If you're happy, Davie, then I'm happy too. You're right, you know. We're on vacation. We should enjoy ourselves.'

'That's the spirit, mate.'

'And to that end . . .' I produced a clutch of pamphlets I'd picked up in the lobby on the way into breakfast. They covered pretty much all of the local theme parks — Sea World, Disney, Epcot, Universal Studios. I spread them out at random before Davie, or at least as close to random as I could make it look. Actually I put the Universal Islands of Adventure leaflet in the most prominent position, because I was completely determined to have a go on the 3-D Spiderman thrill ride. It was the kind of subtle attempt at mind-control I was famous for.

Davie nodded down at the leaflets for several moments, then pushed them together into a neat pile and tore them in half.

'We're not doing the theme parks, Dan. It's not that kind of a holiday.'

He reached into his own back pocket and produced a different leaflet. It showed the other Ramada Inns dotted around Florida, but he'd clearly only picked it up because on the reverse of it there was a fairly detailed road map of the state. He jabbed a finger at it. 'Here,' he said. 'This is where we're going.'

He was pointing at the Gulf Coast, at the beaches south and west of Tampa.

'But why? What's down there? What's so great about . . .'

I trailed off. He looked kind of hurt. And a little bit angry. 'Because it's my honeymoon, and that's where we planned to go, all right? Is that too much to ask?'

I sat back. 'No,' I said.

'Okay. I'm gonna pack my stuff. See you back down here in ten minutes, and we'll get on the road, yeah?'

'Yeah,' I said.

He got up and started to walk across the restaurant. Then he stopped and came back. He put a hand on my shoulder and said, 'Sorry. I didn't mean to . . . you know.'

'Don't worry about it.'

'It just gets to me, you know?'

I nodded. I could understand. It was getting to me as well, as was the realisation that I had agreed to spend twenty-one days driving around Florida with a complete looper.

We took the 14 from Orlando to Tampa, then cut off onto the 275 for St Petersburg. I drove, Davie read the map. There wasn't a lot to it. Big road. Big traffic. Big easy. We didn't say much. Davie cracked a few funnies and I grunted. We listened to the radio. We heard 'London Calling' on an adult-orientated rock station, and looked at each other grimly. We liked that The Clash were recognised now, but lamented it as well. The sun was cutting our eyes out through our shades and the air conditioning on our Dodge rust-bucket was about as strong as a dead man's last gasp. We were sweating through our shoes. All around luxury cars were laughing at us as they cruised past. I'm not a car-boy, never have been, but even I felt embarrassed.

About halfway there, an hour and a half on the road, I insisted on stopping for doughnuts and Diet Pepsi. I insisted by pulling off the road and driving to a 7-Eleven while Davie flapped about in the passenger seat like he'd been hijacked. But he didn't reject the custard doughnut I bought him. He glanced at his watch as he ate it and I said, 'What's the big fucking hurry, Davie?'

'No particular hurry.'

'Then stop looking at your watch.'

'We have to check in. It's on the itinerary.'

I nodded and swallowed some doughnut. 'Anything else on that itinerary I should know about?'

Davie shrugged. 'Not really, no.'

'You know, you've been whining on about me relaxing and enjoying the holiday, you should take a leaf out of your own fucking book.'

I finished the doughnut and threw the napkin out of the window. I started the engine. As we pulled back out onto the interstate Davie said, 'You're pissed off, aren't you?'

'No.'

'Yes, you are. And it's my fault. I'm sorry.'

'And you don't need to keep apologising. Just stop
doing
it.'

'Doing what?'

'Winding me up.'

'I'm not doing it on purpose, Dan.' I gave him a look. 'Really. Maybe we're just different. Maybe we've grown apart.'

'Maybe we are. Maybe we have.'

Frankly, I didn't think there was much doubt about it.

'So what's the solution?' Davie asked.

I should have left it. But I never do. 'How about you get over the fact that you're not on fucking honeymoon. How about you get your story straight.'

There. I'd said it. I'd meant to keep it under my hat. But it was out there, slapping him round the face.

'What story?' he said quietly.

'What story?' I was getting angry now. 'C'mon Davie, how much of a fucking doughbag do you think I am?'

He raised his hands off the map and held them about twelve inches apart. 'This much?' he asked.

I couldn't help but laugh. We drove on. About another three miles down the road he said: 'What story?' again.

The road was straight and the traffic had thinned out after Tampa so I could afford to give him a long, hard look without writing off the car. He kept eye-contact for just a couple of seconds, then returned his attention to the road. I kept looking, daring him to look back, but he wouldn't.

'What story?' I said.

'What fucking story?' Davie snapped.

I snorted. 'What story. You know what story.'

'I wouldn't be fucking asking, you Clampett.'

'You and Karen.'

'Me and Karen who?'

'You tell me, you slabber.'

'No, you tell me, you wanker.'

'What the fuck are you calling me a wanker for? You're the one doing the slabbering.'

'Christ! Dan, what the fuck are you talking about!'

'About you and Karen Malloy!'

'Karen Malloy from Groomsport?'

'Yes — Karen Malloy from Groomsport!'

'Karen Malloy's dead!'

'I know that! So how the fuck can you be engaged to her?'

'I'm not! Christ Almighty, Dan, what're you on?'

'I'm not on anything!'

'Patricia told me you were seeing a psychiatrist, but I didn't think you were a fucking mental!'

'I'm not a — Jesus . . .'

I slapped the wheel in frustration. I took a deep breath. I tried to concentrate on the road. Someone was singing on the radio about taking their love to town. 'On the plane,' I said as calmly as possible, 'you said your fiancée was Karen Malloy.'

'I did not.'

'You did.'

'Why would I say that?'

'I don't know why you would say that. But you did. I swear to God.'

'Karen Malloy?'

'Karen Malloy.'

'But Karen Malloy's dead.'

'Yes, I think we've established that.'

'Then why would I say she was my fiancée?'

'I really don't know. Because you're
barking.'

'Because
you're
barking.'

We both stared angrily at the road. I wanted to stop the car, pull him out and hit him with a spanner. I wanted to . . .

. . . and then I heard it. A low chuckle. He kept his eyes on the road, and his face straight, but the chuckle was coming from way down in his stomach, like he'd swallowed a frog and it was reading a joke-book. The dull angry stare began to morph into a moist shine, the chuckle grew louder and a crease began to creep across his brow. Slowly his head turned towards me.

'Gotcha,' he said.

I glared at him.

'Got
-cha,'
he half-sang.

'You bastard.'

He laughed and slapped the dashboard. 'I fucking got you! I burned you up!'

'You fucker.'

'The thought that I got to her, that I had sex with her, that she chose me over you.'

'You wanker.'

'And even though you knew she was dead, the remotest possibility that she might not be, that she had somehow survived having her legs cut off and then being cremated, for Christ's sake, the tiniest microscopic thought that she'd somehow pulled through in order to have sex with me, it's really been burning you up, hasn't it?'

'No,' I said.

'Liar!'

'Fuck off!'

'Liar liar pants on fire!'

'Grow up, Davie.'

'I had her — you didn't, I had her — you didn't!'

'Fuck you, arsehole.' I shook my head. I chewed my lip.

'Gotcha.'

He had fucking got me. The bastard. I'd get him. I'd get him back, with bells on. I fucking would.

'Dan?'

'What?' 'A word of advice.'

'Fuck off.'

'Okay.'

Another mile.

'What then?'

'I think we missed our turn.'

We'd managed to make our way onto the 75, but it was a blessing in disguise really because we were able to follow its loop back round to the 275 and cross onto Long Key and St Pete's Beach via the Sunshine Skyway, a huge finger of a toll-bridge which straddled Tampa Bay and gave us epic views of the sea and ships and beaches beyond. It served to settle us both down, for it was our first real glimpse of majestic America.