The Book of Dave (6 page)

It wasn't until he turned off Wells Lane and bumped up the rough track between Mill Hill school and its sports fields that
Dave realized he hadn't replied to the fare. He thought of remedying the deficiency, but it was too late for anything save
a hearty 'Well, here you are, sir, up on the heights. If it were only a little earlier I'd suggest you take a stroll after
your meeting. You can see most of the northwest of London from here, and right into the city centre.' The fare only grunted,
examined his crumpled paper, then sang out, 'This is it!' as they drew level with a prosperous cantonment. The Burberry bundle
tugged up his briefcase and piled out of the door. Standing by the driver's window, he sorted through the pigskin wallet he'd
drawn from an inside pocket in the irritating, dilatory way of a foreigner, examining each note as if he weren't quite sure
if it had any value at all – let alone its face one. Dave saw his tip dwindle to nothing. Americans who were used to London
tipped well; newcomers seldom bothered – they certainly didn't understand that twenty per cent was considered perfectly acceptable
for a black cab.
Still, twenty-five notes on the meter, and who knows if
. .
. 'You wouldn't like me to wait would you, sir? I can turn the meter off if you're not going to be more than an hour.' The
fare consulted his watch before replying, 'No, thank you, I'm gonna be a good deal longer.' He handed over the money, a tenner
and a twenty, then hesitated while Dave combed the coin in his bag, finger waves pitter-purling on metal shingle, then, 'Keep
the change, cabbie.'

'Thank you very much, sir, much obliged to you!'
Consider yerself
at home! Consider yerself one of the fa-mi-ly! We've taken t'you so strong!
It's clear! We're! Going to get along!'
In the jaundiced eye of his own self-contempt Dave saw himself leaping from the cab to hoe down in the dirty puddles, skipping
and splashing, his sleeves up to his elbows, tugging the peak of his cap in lieu of a forelock.

Once the ex-fare had turned and walked off under the homely glow of a solitary streetlight, Dave bumped the cab on over the
top of the hill and down to the Ridgeway. He made a right and parked up opposite the Institute. There were seven storeys of
big, metal-framed windows – including dormers – and all were brightly lit. From the open transoms came the hum of purposive
machinery. When Dave was a boy, hidden in the estate off Bittacy Hill gasping on a fag, and waiting for the rest of his class
to return from their run up to the top of the Ridgeway so he could rejoin the race at a believably low ranking, the word was
that the cure for cancer was on the point of discovery under the Institute's green copper roof. Then he'd glimpsed white-coated
lab assistants doing things with racks of test tubes, but now the lower windows were equipped with reflective glass, and Dave
had found out that if he moved towards the fence CCTV cameras tracked him, each one equipped with its own little 'eek' of
a wiper. Inside, the biomedical boffins had given up on the cancer cure – just as they themselves had given up smoking. Instead
the American's colleagues were splicing genes, humanizing antibodies and growing ferny little forests of stem cells. The occasional
puppy's eye was dissected, the live animal pinioned in a savage clamp. White girls with dreadlocks, maddened by the deficiencies
of their vegan diets, would come up here and try to kill the boffins.
It's a bitch save dog world …

Dave Rudman switched off the engine and got out of the cab. He was a large man with broad shoulders rounded by occupational
hunching. He had the standard issue potbelly of the sedentary forty-year-old, and his unfit jeans hung low on his sagging
rear. His features were handsome enough and taken at a glance they gave an impression of strength and sensuality: broad, full-lipped
mouth; prominent, fine-bridged nose; firm, dimpled chin. Sadly, up close this wavered, then dissolved. His dark eyes were
too bulbous and too close set. His complexion was worked over by the leather-puncher of old acne scars. His thin, veined ears
stuck out. When he took off his cap he revealed that his hair – which anyway had been nondescript – was gone, leaving behind
a lumpy skull, full of odd depressions and queer mounds. Where his hairline used to be were several rows of little craters,
as if a minuscule crop had been lifted. His two front teeth niggled at each other, one bony knee trying to cross over the
other. Given a measure of content it was a face that might have cohered; now, standing in the damp dusk of winter's day on
the bluffs above London, Dave Rudman's face was disorganized by pain, his features driven apart from one another by an antagonism
so powerful that it pitted ear against eye, cheek against nose, chin against the world. Five days' stubble gave him a cartoon
muzzle.

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!'

'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?

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?'