Will Self - The Book of Dave

A full cab-tariff band later, Dave's heart changed down and struggled to pull his clapped-out consciousness into the dim light of the spieler. He noticed that Big End was gone — and acknowledged he'd been so for some time.

'Heh-heh,' said one of the old faces who was playing blackjack with Fucker, 'wadjew give 'im, whizz or wot?'

'Whizz,' Fucker said. He was at ease with these men, whose mortal clay was fired with venality.

'Heh-heh, hit me, you cunt.' The dealer — a terrifying rail of a man in a zip-up nylon windcheater — chucked the old face a card. 'Busted. Orlright, I'm ahtuvere.' He got up, a bandy-legged little man, who for all that exuded palpable menace. 'Wherejoo 'eaded, Freddie?' the Dealer asked, tipping back on his chair.

'Gants Hill,' Freddie spat. 'I'm minted an' I'm putting a monkey on wiv Basset fer Tony Thornton to whip that prancing nigger Eubank.'

'As you do,' Fucker put in, but Freddie paid him no mind, only shrugged on his blazer and adjusted his display handkerchief, smoothing the two snowy linen fangs. He departed through red velveteen curtains with a puff of dust.

For the next hour or two Dave lay slumped on the narrow vinyl banquette, while Fucker played cards and described his sexual conquests to the rail with gynaecological precision. They call me Mister Loverman. They call me Mister Loverman … Other men came in through the curtains and sat down for a hand or two. They were all of a kind — lazy and dangerous — their patter reduced to staccato machismo. There was much talk of 'stinky little drummers', 'going out there' and 'doing a bit of work'. 'Orlright, is 'e?' They jerked their dagger-thumbs at Dave, and Fucker vouched for him. ''Im? 'E's a cabbie, we used to be butter boys togevver.'

Gary — Fucker — Finch. He came across the waiting room of the Public Carriage Office on Penton Street the day Dave went to put in his application. He put out his hand to be shaken, and when Dave reached for it jerked it away and sent it burrowing into his own curly mop. That was Fucker, a tubby little chap laughing at his own japes and practical jokes. The inflated condom, the deflated back tyre, the prank phone call — when he was a lad it was endearing, then as he got older it grew staler. What stunts, Dave wondered, would he be pulling in middle age?

With its old kitchen-unit bar, nicotine ceiling and snooker-hall lampshade, the spieler was outside of time and even space. Dave thought they might be in a cellar — but he couldn't be sure. When he went to squirt half-digested curry into a shattered commode, he staggered along a dank corridor. To one side there was exposed brickwork, on the other stacks of plastic-wrapped toilet rolls. But there was no paper in the kharzi, unless he tore another strip from the poster of Sam Fox in string-bikini bottoms. Someone had already ripped off her left breast.

Dave felt drunk, sick and wired all at once. His heart kept thumping him in his conscience. I'm no kind of father at all. . I'm nothing … If I was gone tomorrow he'd never know … He'd never remember the hours spent in the PlayZone, the two of us squirming in the plastic balls … That fever he had … The smell of it … Eggy water spilt on a hot ring … Pushing him up from Falloden Way to my mum's pulling ivy from a fence … Laughing … At Brighton he said 'Jewels' and tried to scoop up the sunlight on the sea … Trudging across the Serpentine in a pedalo. . His feet barely reaching the pedals … Is this the sea, Daddy, the really sea? There's no point in going home now … Too late.

Later still they were in a strip club and a skinny girl was thrusting her green Spandex crotch in Dave's face. He could see her stubble — she his. Boy George bragged, 'I know all there is to know about the crying game.' Fucker chose this moment to be coherent: 'You 'eard about Phil Eddings, then?'

'You what? You … what?'

'Phil, U erred wot 'appened?'

'No.'

'Oh, c'mon, you're fucking jarring me now, Tufty.'

'I tell you, Fucker, I HAVEN'T HEARD!' The stripper reared away from him.

'Not so loud, son,' Fucker took Dave gently by the scruff as a heavy in a black Harrington unbuckled his meaty arms and came towards them. 'No bovver, mate,' said Fucker, fending him off. 'We wuz leavin' anyway.'

In the street — which was the brooding clash of Hackney Road and Old Street — they leaned against each other like discarded milk crates. A tramp came striding by, his certain tread and modern backpack contradicting his boots, which were shot to shit… uppers and soles with no heels or toes. 'What, then?' Dave burped. 'What about Phil?'

''E …'e …' Fucker gasped it out: ''E only went and topped 'imself.'

In the minicab Fucker elaborated. 'Like me, Phil couldn't make the payments. 'E did a runner, posted the keys in the door an' took off. But 'ere's a fing.' Fucker's two ham hands held Dave's shoulder. 'They caught up wiv 'im. Skip tracers, they call 'em, you surface they track you down. Dirty fucking work. Dirty. Finance company were gonna take the cab offa 'im, so he went to a shark. Shark upped the vig, sent round the chaps, didn't get Phil — found 'is girl, Lottie.'

'Don't know her.' How could I? Haven't seen Phil in five years. . Never will now …

'They roughed 'er up pretty bad, she's a straight-goer azitappens, nurse or sumfing. Anyway Phil blamed 'imself big time — fought of offing the shark, got a shooter inall — but in the end 'e did the business on 'imself.'

'With the gun?' For some reason it matters …

''No, 'ung 'imself.' Fucker stared out through gems of rain towards the river and beyond it the Greenwich peninsula. 'Oi, mate,' he said addressing the bullet head of the driver, 'you should've taken the first turn down Westferry, you've gone all round the fucking 'ouses.'

'Pliz?' Thick lips parted in the rearview mirror.

'Oh, it don't matta … it don't fucking matta … I tell you, Tufty, it's the dog I feel sorry for, the poor little fing was stuck wiv 'is body for free days, see the bird 'ad fucked off… trauma an' vat … When they found Phil the dog 'ad gnawed 'is legs just to survive.'

The cab pulled into the kerb and Fucker levered himself out. 'Dog, dogs,' he was muttering, 'funny that, 'coz we're on the Isle of bloody Dogs and goin' t'see some.' Dave paid the minicab, while his friend continued, 'Not that they are, really. Seriously, my Carol is a good little sort — '

'But a brass, right? No offence — '

'None taken. Yeah, she's a brass, but it's not like that wiv me an' 'er, it's more of a friendship, mostly we don' even shag, we juss 'ave a little cuddle.'

'A cuddle?' Dave couldn't help but laugh.

'Nah, nah, don' get me wrong, Tufty, thass not what's lined up fer you, there's free of 'em working 'ere, all nice girls, cummon nah.' With artful dabs Fucker guided Dave towards the house, which was a bog-standard Millwall semi. Further south were the pseudo-warehouses stacked with apartments, while up towards Limehouse No. 1 Canada Square towered over the now purely ornamental docks. Yet here Millwall remained, a low-rise grid of ordinary aspiration.

The three girls sat round a muted telly rolling joints and drinking Diet Coke. In their catalogue peignoirs and mail-order harem pants they looked like teenagers playing at being tarts. However, there was nothing playful about Carol — a brunette as tall as Dave, with rigid hair and blurred features, who rose up from the sofa and bore Fucker off to another room. Soon enough Dave could hear her creating, which leaves me with Yasmin, to whom he'd been introduced and who now rose up as well. Jesus! She's a big girl, you don't get many of 'em to the pound. . The schoolboy joked because the man felt disgusted with himself— and disgusted by her. Goods Way in the 80s … recession tarts … The other lads would 'ave 'em in the back. . get a polish, then drive 'em to their dealers … I never did, though … It seemed much worse because she was Asian. The crow hair, the bluey-brown shadows under her eyes, the sortuv sideburns those Pakki birds have. Perversely, he felt concerned for her disgrace. Can't be any going back up north now … not after this … Faisal popped up, admonishing them both with a stiff finger. Allah Akbar. .