Will Self - The Book of Dave

Finally, Dave allowed his own eyes to leave the Skip Tracer's face and follow the direction of his darting eyes. Two tables away sat a girl of twelve or thirteen. She was wearing a bright pink tracksuit with a red spangly heart embroidered on the back. Her thick blonde hair was tied back in a pink scrunchie. She was working at a colouring book with an elongated novelty pencil, on the end of which wavered a pink flashing heart. She looked up as Dave gazed at her and smiled, her braces a zipper in the soft, oval bag of her face. It was the girl in the photo on the filing cabinet in Belgravia. Dave's eyes swivelled to the Skip Tracer. 'Yours, is she?'

'Yeah, yeah, obviously, only get her for the afternoon. Problems — difficulties, court order thingy — you'll appreciate that. 'Er mum's a lawyer, as it 'appens — got me by the bollocks. Alright, love?' he called over to the girl. 'Won't be long now, then we'll go shopping.' He turned back to Dave. 'colouring,' he said, jerking a thumb at the girl and speaking in an uncharacteristic undertone. 'Bit babyish, but makes 'er feel, I dunno, secure.'

'Have they got to you in some way?' Dave's eyes bored into the Skip Tracer's. 'Is that it? Have they got something on you?'

'Nah, nah, you're paranoid, you are, son. If I didn't know better I'd say you were — '

'Whatever. I'm fed up with this, I'm fed up with you.' Dave got up abruptly and began making his way between the tables towards the exit. The Skip Tracer called after him: 'Just a sec, Rudman!' It was the first time he'd ever called Dave by name.

Dave came back to the table. 'What? What is it?'

'Bill, my son.' The Skip Tracer passed him an envelope. 'All there, shitshape, tits fashion.'

'You wha— you. You said not to worry about the money.'

'There's worrying about money and there's paying it, son, two different things entirely. And remember what I said,' he called to Dave's retreating back. 'Don't go to those sharks, matey, the vig'll fucking kill yer.'

That following Tuesday, as usual, Dave Rudman went to his Fathers First meeting in the Trophy Room of the Swiss Cottage Sports Centre. He went even though he'd spent the last two days in bed, Zopicloned into inanition. It was a mistake — he couldn't meet anyone's eyes. The venue didn't seem right — it looked like the inside of a cabbies' shelter, the glowing trophy cabinet a steely urn, a ghostly table rising up between the men's knees, on it a plastic cloth patterned with plastic fruit. 'Those fucking coloureds,' said Daniel Brooke; 'they don't pay no bleeding road tax, no insurance, whassit all abaht, eh?'

'An' those speed bumps,' Keith Greaves put in. 'I tell yer my wishbones is shot t'shit.'

'Shot t'shit,' some of the other dads chorused.

'What's going on?' Dave asked Fucker Finch. 'Are these blokes dads or drivers?'

'Snap ahtuvit, Tufty,' Fucker said, shaking Dave's shoulder. 'You look bloody awful, mate. Where you bin all weekend? I woz calling you.'

'Bin sleeping,' Dave muttered. 'Bin laden — laden wiv dreams.'

Daniel Brooke stood up to address the group. He was sporting an outsized black T-shirt that draped down almost to his knees. On the front there was a big white fist. 'This is the new T-shirt, chaps — hot off the press. I hope you like it, there are six sizes, this is the XXXL I'm modelling, a little on the large size for a slender fellow such as myself.' He gave them a twirl and across the back of the shirt ballooned the white letters FIGHTING FATHERS. 'Hold on, hold on, Dan.' Keith Greaves was on his feet. 'That's not what we agreed, that's not the logo we all voted for — and you know it. It's far too aggressive.'

'This is not the only Fathers First group, Keith — you know that.'

'I tell you what I do know,' Greaves said, shaking with rage. 'I know you've been trying to hijack this particular group for ages now. You, you, you're a bloody extremist you are, you're vindictive, you're resentful — '

'You're sounding pretty resentful yourself, Keith,' Daniel Brooke said smoothly, a smile playing round his wet lips.

'We aim to reconcile parents, we aim to forge links — you want to bring the whole thing crashing down! You don't care anything for your own kids at all — it's all about you and your cronies. Why don't you take off and start your own bloody group? Then you can do these direct actions you're always going on about.'

'Maybe I will,' said Daniel. 'Maybe I will do that.'

'D'you know something, Fucker,' Dave whispered to Finch.

'What, Tufty? What?'

'I've written a book.'

Dave ran home down Adelaide Road and along England's Lane to Gospel Oak. Right Haverstock Hill, left Prince of Wales Road, left Queen's Crescent. . He puffed over inside his own skull as he ran, staggering to a halt every fifty yards because a stitch had been sewn in his diaphragm and Fanning, the GP, was yanking on it to give his words emphasis: At your AGE, Mister Rudman … a SMOKER. . with a SEDENTARY OCCUPATION … you ought to consider some EXERCISE … which would help you with your DEPRESSION. Take some RESPONSIBILITY for your LIFE. Dave wasn't running for his health, he was running because he could no longer trust himself to drive the cab. He couldn't control this behemoth vehicle, with its chassis of reinforced-steel girders, its pre-stressed concrete bodywork, its York stone carpets and carriage work of herringbone London bricks. When he looked in the rearview he saw that he had more passengers than he was licensed for. Far more — approximately seven million in fact. They're all back there, the whole population of the fucking city … it's gonna kick off. .

Back in the flat it was no better. He sat on the side of the bed in his rancid underwear, all his medication held in his cupped hands. Please, sir, can I have some more, sir? Not a good idea. Then, on his sausage hands and burger knees, his nose in the greasy carpet, Dave Rudman butted the radiator under the window with a mournful 'clang'. If only I could see him for a few minutes, half an hour, give him a little cuddle, read him a story … Yet it wasn't Carl that he truly wanted; his desire was for competent arms to hold him, smooth skin to smear on oily love, insulation against the terrifying, heaving green swell of madness. On the floor were pieces of ripped-up card, blood from his cut head spattered across them. Thinking again of that cunt, the Skip Tracer, and, for want of anything else to do until I die, Dave began to solve the puzzle with the calm ease of a man with a brain that was scientifically proven to be bigger than normal … so full of Knowledge. . The lettering steadily emerged from the shreddies — D-R-J-A-N-E-B-E-R-N-A-L–C-O-N-S-U-L — until he'd cracked it. Then he thought: I better go looking for the lid so I can check the picture on it's the same.

It wasn't until 3 a.m. that Dave Rudman … comply Pond Street, right access road … finally walked into the reception area of Heath Hospital's Accident and Emergency Department. He showed his painstakingly taped-up jigsaw to the woman at the desk. 'Dr Bernal?' she queried. 'You won't find her here at this time of night.'

'I can wait,' replied the man, who for some reason had a dirty bath towel tied round his head.

'I don't even know what days she comes in,' the receptionist flannelled. 'She's on a rotation.'

'I can wait,' he reiterated, sitting himself down by a Camden Town tart who'd been beaten up by her pimp. 'Give over,' she said through pain-puff lips, and he moved to a different moulded tractor seat. 'You can't — ' the receptionist began — then caught herself. He wasn't making any trouble … why not leave the poor bastard alone?