Will Self - The Book of Dave

Desperate Dave limped to the fence and climbed over it into the playground of a little breeze block of a nursery. Threading his way between shoulder-high slides and swings, he gained a second fence and hoisted himself over that. He hardly seemed conscious of his progress, lifting each heavy denim leg over the chainlink as if it were a prosthesis, until he stood unsteadily, looking out over the darkening valley strung with the fairy lights of street lamps. Rudman sank to his knees — a sudden plunge. His hands — big, soft and hairy — drove into the muddy surface; he grabbed at the soil, lifting clutches of it up, squeezing the morass between his fingers. 'You fucking bitch!' he blubbered. 'You fucking bitch, you've taken … you've taken. . ev-ery-thing!'

'We're fathers first,' said the group leader. 'We're loving dads,' responded the nine men who sat in a loose circle of plastic chairs.

'Iss juss a formality,' Gary Finch whispered to Dave, 'don't take it serious.'

'Good,' said Keith Greaves, the group leader, 'I'm glad we got that straight.' His gaze ranged around the circle, from Dan Brooke in his adman's Armani, to Finch and Rudman in their jeans and tracksuit tops. 'It doesn't matter who we are or where we come from — the only important thing here at Fathers First is that we're dads who want to care for our kids.' There was a throaty mutter of assent. Dave looked away from the men's faces to the tiny gold features of the figurines on the swimming trophies in the glass cabinet that took up a whole wall of the institutional room. 'Now!' Greaves gave a motivational thigh-slap and hunched forward. His white shirt was savagely pressed, his jeans sharply creased, everything about him shouted defiance of lone male neglect. 'Is there any particular issue that a dad wants to raise with the group this evening?'

A skinny man in a leather jacket with a wispy beard raised a tentative finger. 'Access,' he croaked.

'Good, Steve,' said Greaves, his thin lips curling, 'we can all identify with that, now, what's the problem?' Steve began slowly and in measured tones to complain: he'd seen the court welfare reporter, he'd punctiliously attended meetings with the Children and Family Court Advisory and Support Service, he'd honestly reported his earnings to the Child Support Agency, but 'Babs, she dicks me around.' His voice began to rise: 'I turn up on a Wednesday afternoon to pick the girls up from school and she's already got them' — a low rumble of identification from the dads — 'she sends them to her mother's on my weekends' — another rumble — 'they go to her place in new clothes I've bought them, then the clothes never come back to my place' — more rumbling, and, egged on by it, Steve began to rant, 'she's got the house, she's got the car, she's even got another fucking bloke! Now she wants to stop my girls having any relationship with me at all, I can't stand it, I — ' Dave Rudman looked at the faces paled by resentment, the eyes bright with anger. How's this going to help? Adding his own can of pain to this slopping tank of loss?

Forward Regent's Park Road. Forward Finchley Road. Left Temple Fortune Lane. Bear left Meadway Crescent. Bear left Meadway. Right Hampstead Way … Driving by the Heath Extension, looking over the mock meadows, Dave remembered childhood forays up here with his brother, Noel: jumping their bikes over the hillocks and dells in North End Woods, dismounting to battle with other kids, their weaponry sticks and acorns, then charging through the undergrowth — sloshing into the boggy hollows. Finally they would freewheel towards home down Wildwood Road, past the big houses with their glossy privet hedges, cooling Jags and rollers ticking in the driveways. Right Wildwood Road. Left North End Way. Comply Jack Straws Castle … Comply … comply with your fucking restraining order, you dickhead! If you do it again and they catch you, you'll be in a fucking sweat box! Dave's headlights washed over a gaggle of seven-year-olds who were tumbling out of the new-old coaching inn. They were batting a white balloon between them. A tall figure loomed behind them in the doorway and lifted a hand to remonstrate, while gesturing with the other to the busy traffic only feet away. Dave drove on. Right West Heath Road. Left Branch Hill. Right and comply Frognal… The Fairway wallowed over the speed bumps. Nowadays, when the stress built up, he found himself doing this, calling over the route while he drove it, just as he did in his days as a Knowledge boy, puttering around the city on his moped … Left Arkwright Road. Right Fitzjohn's Avenue … It helped to keep his wheels on the ground, stop the cab from taking off like fucking Chitty Chitty bloody Bang Bang. Left Lyndhurst Road. Right Haverstock Hill … which he roared down, his Faredar off. He couldn't afford to pick up a fare up here on the borders of the forbidden zone. It could be anyone — and they might tell someone. Forward Chalk Farm Road. Points at the beginning: Mill Hill school, St Joseph's College, The Rising Sun. Points at the end: None, it's all fucking pointless, innit … Dave sighed, hit the window switches, lit a B & H, switched on his 'For Hire' sign and aimed for the West End. If he was lucky he'd get the after-work crowd, then still be back down in town for something to eat before the theatre burst.

On Shaftesbury Avenue three women extended from the kerb in a chain of linked arms. Whadda they fink they're doin' — fording a river? Dave picked them up. They were on their way back to Chelmsford, and Shirley had some cava in her thermos — this much he gathered. They'd loved Mamma Mia! although not as much as they'd hoped. They did a chorus of 'Waterloo' and two of 'Fernando', drumming on the seats with their fists until he asked them to stop. Nicely. The cab heaved itself off of Primrose Street and squealed down the ramp into the bowels of Liverpool Street Station. The Essex housewives squealed as well, their glassy eyes running up the polished flanks of the new block. At the bottom the tiling reverted to public convenience and oofing they helped each other out, paid what was on the meter and tipped him with their tipsy adoration, '30544, we'll be looking out for yoo-hoo!' Confusing the cab's number with his own, confusing the cab with him. But everyone did that — even Dave.

Dave circled the wheel and pulled back up the ramp. Before he had time to drive round to the rank, he got a fare. Bit dodgy but it was quiet up West, not enough Yanks, not enough shoppers … The lights up Regent Street flashed mostly at themselves.

The new fare was tipsy as well … a City getter. . one Lobb in the gutter, the other on top of his big shiny case, the boxy kind suits use for overnighters. His camelhair overcoat was open, his jacket was undone, his blue-and-white check shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his eggy-puke tie yanked down. He lunged in the back without asking, because he was pissed and yakking on his mobile. Dave remained stationary, pointedly not hitting the meter. 'Where to, guv?'

'I don't fucking care where that tranche is, Beaky, put it in the other account, mix it up, shift it round — 'eathrow —' he flung through the glass panel and then resumed: 'It's not a case of coverin' up, man, it's getting things done. I get things done — you get things done, the whole whatsit moves … moves forward.' Dave could hear Beaky pecking to get in from the ether, until he flicked the shift into drive and the cab lurched off through the unmanned police check and round the corner into London Wall.

The fare couldn't stop talking as Dave threaded the cab down through the dark fabric of the City to the Embankment. He got out his laptop and began linking it up to his mobile with a pigtail of cable, until this proved beyond him, so he just read stuff off it to Beaky. Not that Dave was paying much attention, but this getter — young, ferret face, lock of mousy hair on a voddie-sweat brow, fake signet ring — didn't care if he listened or not. The driver was only another part of the cab's equipment for him, like the reading light or the fan heater. Dave obliged him — he had his own thoughts for company.