Wee Danny (7 page)

"Will we see them today?"

"It's a bit early. You mostly find them on the other side of the summer."

"Ach."

"But watch your step just in case. If you see a mushroom, don't squish it."

"Okay, Daddy."

I halt in my tracks and Conan nearly blunders into me.

"You okay, Danny?"

Is it me or him that's making the mistake?

"I'm great, big man." There's a faint rumble to my right. "I think I can hear cars."

"Oh. So we didn't need the fairies."

"Aye, we did. Sure I was walking where I
thought
they would be. They've led us right to where we want to go."

"You're crazy, Danny."

"I think you're some craic too, mate. Now come on, let's run."

I've gotten to like the funny noises Conan makes when he's excited. They're kind of infectious. I don't make the same sound or anything but I do let out a huge, "Yeeeeeeooooooow!"

We sprint where we can and hop, climb and skid where we can't. Sweat floods all my nooks and crannies. There are fewer trees and then there are none. We're in a field with sheep but they're staying the hell out of our way. Conan bleats at some lambs and they almost kill themselves in the rush to a safer distance. And now I can see a five-bar gate. It leads out to a road.

I point towards our exit and yell, "Charge!"

Conan runs faster. Jesus, the big lug should have gassed out by now. I'm feeling the burn down the front of my thighs and the back of my calves. My throat tightens and I'm pulling hard for air. Then I remember the cigarettes. I check my ears. Fuck, I've lost one. I cup the solitary remainder in a loose fist. If Conan wants to try smoking he'll have to share. He might not want to anyway. My feet are humming now. Each step sends a judder through my joints. How fucking big is this field?

Conan touches the gate and a second later I do too. I wipe sweat from my eyes with a scratched-up forearm. My internal combustions threaten to melt my cheeks. I gasp for air.

"I
won
," Conan says.

I try to straighten up and tell him he's the man, even though I didn't know we were racing. All I can manage is a shoulder pat before I need to bend down and, with my hands on my knees, try to catch my breath again. Conan rubs my back and pride drives me upright. I swallow some mucous-riddled spit and smile at my friend.

"Great job, Conan. You bossed that race."

He wraps his big strong arms around me and for a second I think maybe that's the way I'm going to die. Affectionate asphyxiation. My GCSE English teacher would cackle at that illiter-whatever. Illiteration? Alliteration. Stupid fucker would turn his nose up at the fact that I learned the fancy word for choking from Google News, though. Some old guy who used to be famous hung himself when he was having a wank. Jesus, my thoughts go some weird places when my body's fucked.

Conan lets go and I breathe and manage to stay on my feet. We climb over the gate and walk along the ditch in silence for a bit. The barbarian is happy to let me lead. I suspect he'd walk off a pier for me.

And there it is. A brown sign with a simple white outline of a boat on it. Confirmation that we're on the right road and not too far away from Strangford and its ferry.

I wonder if it'll take us to Newcastle? That'd be way cooler than a bus.

Nothing's ever how you remember it or imagine it. I finally get myself a light and my cigarette tastes like sweaty balls and cancer. But I persevere. Maybe the last few puffs will be more like old times. I thank the little old lady who provided the Bic lighter and she tootles off with a bashed-up tartan trolley-bag trailing behind her.

Strangford looks kind of nice and all, but what the fuck are we meant to do here while we wait for the bus? The prick at the shitty wee ferry place laughed at me when I asked him to take us to Newcastle. It was a serious question, like. How are you supposed to know it only goes to one other town? The brown signs don't even mention it. Surely it'd make more sense to put that on the sign instead of a picture of a boat? The ferry doesn't even look like a real ship anyway. The deck's all flat and full of cars and the driver, or whatever you call the guy steering it, sits in some sort of tower. Fucking stupid, so it is.

Conan seems to like the place, though.

"I smell fish, Danny."

"That's because we're close to the water."

"No. Eating fish."

He points one of those farmer-boy fingers at a tiny chippy. It looks all right. Bet it's not as good as Zukko's on Beechmount Avenue used to be.

"Can we get some, Danny?"

I check the little pocket in my jeans for the notes I smuggled out from the secret stash this morning. If I buy two fish suppers I might not be able to afford twenty Regal on top of the bus fares to Newcastle. Then again, the bus driver's Lambert and Butler
was
disgusting. And sure, when we get to the amusements I'll probably win some drinking money on the fruit machines.

"Aye, sure thing, big man. You must be starving, right?"

Conan charges into the chippy, pushing the door a little too hard. It thumps into the wall and bounces back. The barbarian gives it a second, gentler push.

"Jesus, big man. Take it easy."

"Sorry, Danny."

The woman behind the counter is giving us some weird looks. Not sure I can blame her. I try a bit of charm.

"Nice wee place this."

She shrugs.

"Your shop, I mean. Not the town."

"It's not my shop."

"Oh."

Conan says nothing.

I look out the window for a bit and breathe in the smell of overworked deep fat fryers.

"Do you want salt and vinegar on these?"

"Give us the works."

"Does that mean yes?"

"Aye. Please."

She looks at me with suspicion and I'm tempted to point out that I've already paid for her shitty food, but then she might not hand over those white-paper parcels. My mouth is watering and the shite-talk isn't worth the risk.

"Plastic forks?"

"Aye."

"Napkins?"

"Aye."

"Red sauce?"

"Aye."

"It's ten pence for a sachet."

"Give us five."

I'm the last of the big spenders.

She puts the fish suppers and two tins of Coke in a plastic bag and hands the lot over. "Don't be littering the town, now."

"Aye, fuck you very much."

I say it dead low, more for Conan's benefit than hers. She acts like she hasn't heard me, but I saw the way her greasy face twitched. I'm an expert wind-up merchant.

"Can we eat outside?" Conan asks.

"I think we have to, mate."

"Good."

We find a bench that faces the water. It's peaceful. Quiet to the point of creepy until Conan starts to tear his fish supper open. There's a bin nearby. I scoped it out because I don't want to give the chippy bitch the satisfaction of being right about me and my potential to litter. Plus there are signs about on-the-spot fines. I was a moron to mouth off to her. If we don't keep a low profile we're going to get scooped. I haven't seen a police station in this town, but that doesn't mean it's not out there somewhere.

"Can we go swimming after we eat, Danny?"

"You're supposed to wait an hour after food before you get in the water."

"Oh."

"And we've no togs or towels."

"Oh."

"And there's a sign over there that says it's against the rules in this town."

"Oh."

"But fuck everybody and their rules, right, mate?"

Conan sprays a mouthful of fish. I don't think that counts as litter, though. Some dog, cat or seagull will have it.

"We're going swimming?"

I think about the burns on my upper thighs, try to remember what underpants I put on this morning and wonder about how this whole thing is going to end. Not just the day that's in it but our sentences, our lives. And I just don't care any more. I'm free right now and that's all that matters.

"We're going swimming, big man."

The fish suppers disappear, chased by loud gulps of chilled Coke.

"Where are we going to keep our clothes, Danny?"

"Just leave them here on the bench. I bet nobody tries to steal them. But put your shoes on top so they don't blow away or something."

And that's the last question on Conan's mind. He's not thinking ahead about getting dried or catching the bus to Newcastle or whether or not that thing about getting cramps on a full stomach is true. The barbarian is already half naked. Then we're both in our boxers. Pale skin and goose-bumps. Giggles from both of us.

Conan frowns. He's noticed the marks on my thighs:

Confusion.

Wonder.

Sadness in his eyes.

"Who did that to you, Danny?"

"Some wee prick I don't get along with any more."

"Will you fight him?"

"No, mate. Not this time. I think the best thing to do is just let him … like, drift away."

"Good. I don't want you to get hurt."

"Thanks, big man."

We're still standing in our boxers. I point to the water.

"Race you?"

Somebody blasts a car horn. I don't even know if it's for us or some road rage thing, but we use it as a starter's pistol. There's not much running this time, though. When we get up to our thighs in bollock-freezing cold water I have a moment of reflection on virginity and death. Then Conan grabs my upper arm.

"Come on. Swim."

His teeth are chattering. So are mine. We move forward, Conan's fingers still digging into my bicep. And now my boxers are wet and I can't feel my balls. The barbarian takes a few more steps forward before he's in the same banana boat. And now that's sealed the deal. We're in it up to our necks.

I think I can hear a siren in the distance.

Conan doggy paddles. I didn't believe him when he said he was a good swimmer, but there he is, tongue out, head above the water, delirious with the truest joy. It looks like so much fun. And I can do it. I can swim. Nothing hurts now. It's not even that cold. Oh, God. I hope this is better than sex, because this siren's getting louder and I think it's going to be a long time before I get a real crack at a fit wee girl.

"I love you, Conan."

He makes his favourite noise, splashes me and screams, "Love you too, Daddy."

My teeth chatter and I think my swingers have drawn up into my stomach. But I'm fucked if I'm going to just hand myself over. Wish they'd hurry up and figure out what they want to do with us, though. We've had our fun and Conan's worried.

"Are they going to turn on the sirens again?" His hands are held up by his ears, ready to cover them.

"I don't think so, mate."

A pair of cop cars and an ambulance are parked up on the road leading to the ferry. Four of the PSNI's finest are standing at the edge of the water, just about keeping their shoes dry. They've given up shouting at us. The ambulance men are leaning against their big motor, one of them smoking, both of them ignoring the peelers. The fire brigade must have had something important to do.

"What's that noise?"

I tilt my head and turn in a full circle. Water laps against my chin. It's so cold.

"I can't hear it, mate."

"It's like …" Conan clears his throat and kind of purrs.

And then I have it. An engine, but not a car or a lorry or anything. I look to the village that faces Strangford across the Baltic water. The wanker on the stupid-looking boat had called it Portaferry. There's a wee orange dinghy headed our way. Fast. Conan edges closer to me.

"What are
they
doing, Danny?"

"Fucked if I know. They better ease up on the revs, though. They're pointed right at us."

"We should swim away."

"I don't know if I can. I'm knackered, like."

Then the engine cuts out and the dinghy sort of goes broadside a good wee distance away from us. The handbraker stunt pushes waves our way. I see the first one coming but can't do anything about it. Salty water goes right up my nose. I clench my eyes and my feet lose grip of the slippery stones. Strangford Lough swallows me.

Before panic can set in, rough farmer-boy hands slide under my arms. Conan hauls me back to the surface by the oxters.

"Are you okay, Danny?"

I nod, cough and rub at my eyelids. The inside of my nose stings like a bastard and I have the taste of the sea in my mouth. But I'm breathing.

Something crackles and squeals. I look at the boat. Some lad is standing up and fiddling with a megaphone. He looks too young to be on a lifeboat. And too fucking stupid. I reach for Conan's hand under the water. The barbarian holds on a little too tight.