Free Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) by Colin Bateman Page A

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