Driving Big Davie (Dan Starkey) Read Free Page B

Before he, she or it could speak there came a:
    'HARDER. HARDER.'
    I swallowed and said, 'Hello?'
    'Dan?'
    'OOOOH YES!'
    I cleared my throat.' Yes.'
    'Dan, it's Davie.'
    'OOH YES. YES. YES!'
    I cleared my throat again.' Davie?'
    'Yes, Davie.'
    'Davie?'
    'Davie, Davie.'
    'GIVE IT TO ME, GIVE IT TO ME HARD.'
    'Davie Kincaid?'
    'Yes, Davie Kincaid.'
    'Davie Kincaid? The Davie Kincaid?'
    'OOOOH YES!'
    'Yes, Dan. How're you doin'?'
    'I'm . . . fine. Davie Kincaid? But I haven't—'
    'I know, Dan, it's donkey's years. But I had to call. As soon as I heard, I had to call.'
    'OOH yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!'
    'Dan, is this a bad time? There seems to be—'
    'No, it's fine. We just . . . we have the painters in.'
    'Are they having sex?'
    'No. They're just . . . admiring their work. They're doing a mural, you see. But what do you mean "as soon as you heard"?'
    'You haven't heard?'
    'I don't know what I haven't heard, Davie. Davie Kincaid. My God.'
    'He's dead.'
    'Who's dead?'
    'Strummer.'
    'Strummer?'
    'Joe's dead, Dan. I had to call. He's gone. It was just on the news. Of all the people in all the world, I had to call you.'
    'Joe?'
    'Joe.'
    'But he's only . . .'
    'I know, Dan.' His voice was shaky.
    'Davie.' Christ Almighty, so was mine. Joe Strummer. Rock'n'roll. Bottles of cider on the beach, pogo-ing madly, parties, gigs, fanzines, singles, spiked hair, anarchy, gobbing, missing the last bus home, forming bands, posing with sunglasses, writing lyrics, wailing into a mike, trying to learn a chord, abusing people wearing cords, flares, big permed hair, being attacked for wearing drainpipes, being chased by Rockers, throwing up, sniffing Poppers, having just the best time of our lives. And all traced directly back to Joe. It was just miserable to know that he was dead. And then the tears came. It was just the most shocking, horrible news I could think of.
    'Dan, are you okay?'
    'Yes . . . yes. It's just — devastating.'
    'I know . . . I know. I knew you'd understand. Everyone round here's looking at me like I'm a head the ball. But Strummer. Jesus.'
    I tried to wipe at my tears but they kept coming.
    Then there was a knock on the door.
    'Mr Starkey? Is everything all right?'
    'Yes!' It wasn't a shout, it was a wail.
    Strummer was dead.
    'Are you sure?'
    The nurse didn't wait for an answer; I heard a key in the door, and it opened inwards. She was standing there looking concerned, her mouth open, her eyes wide. Patricia was standing behind her, looking perplexed, but not, I later thought, unduly surprised. And I was standing there, with my zip down, my trousers slightly damp, tears tripping me.
    From the bathroom, my new friend bellowed: 'GIVE ME YOUR BIG COCK! YESSSSS!'
    I swallowed. I raised the phone again.' I'm going to have to call you back, Davie,' I said.

3
    Davie. Big Davie Kincaid.
    Davie was six foot two before he was fifteen years old, a lanky big fella who could get served in off-licences years before anyone else in our crowd but always went bright red when a girl talked to him. For two years from the summer of 1977, he was my best mate. My parents, in one of their rare moments of adventure, had moved the fifteen miles down from Belfast into a seaside village called Groomsport in search of a quiet life. I was fifteen years old and full of testosterone, hormones, spunk and punk and it was like moving to another world. I was a product of the rough tough streets of Belfast; Groomsport on the other hand had some rather nice cul-de-sacs. The nearest it had to a paramilitary organisation was the Boys' Brigade. It was my particular claim to fame that I introduced punk rock to Groomsport. Before my arrival it had been a tasteless wasteland of showbands and Genesis; within a week it was dancing to Richard Hell and The Voidoids. The local youth club grooved to Patrick Hernandez and 'Born to be Alive'. Within a week I'd kids pogo-ing to The Stranglers' 'No More Heroes'. It was a mini-me version of 'Anarchy in the UK' and I loved it; it