The Book of Dave Read Online Free PDF Page B

last, I have nothing to say on my own account. So far as Carl is concerned, he's but a lad, he came with
me unwittingly, and I sought to dissuade him. He had no idea of my purpose.
    The Hack took a deep drag on his fag and blew out a plume of smoke.
    â€“ I care not one whit, he said, the lad's crime is the same as yours, flying, and I am not fit to sit in judgement on either
of you. You will have to go to London, to the PCO. The Examiners have taken it upon themselves to try all flyers, and I cannot
stand in their way. Dave have mercy on your fares!
    â€“ Dave av mursee, the dads echoed.
    â€“ W-will we aff 2 go viss mumf wiv ure partë? Carl couldn't prevent himself from blurting out – then he cowered in anticipation
of a slap.
    Greaves, however, remained calm, and his voice chimed with a note of sympathy:
    â€“ No, lad, you're too young this year. Next year, when I return, you'll be dad enough. Until then you and Böm will remain
here, but mark me, if either of you meddle in the zone from now until then, or if you bother the Driver in any way, it will
count still more severely against you when you arrive in London. Remember your own dad, Carl Dévúsh, remember what happened
to him.

2
    Trapping a Flyer
    December 2001
    Hunched low over the wheel, foglamps piercing the miasma, Dave Rudman powered his cab through the chicane at the bottom of
Park Lane. The cabbie's furious thoughts shot through the windscreen and ricocheted off the unfeeling world. Achilles was
up on his plinth with his tiny bronze cock, his black shield fending off the hair-styling wand of the Hilton, where all my heartache began. Solid clouds hung overhead lunging up fresh blood. The gates to Hyde Park, erected for the Queen Mother, looked like bent paperclips in the gloom, the lion and unicorn on their Warner Brothers escutcheon were prancing cartoon characters. Evil be to him who
thinks of it, said the Unicorn, and the Lion replied, Eeee, whassup, Doc?
    Stuttering by them, Rudman's Faredar picked up a Burberry bundle trapped on the heel of grass that was cut off from the central
reservation by the taut, tarmac tendon of Achilles Way. Stupid plonker. The cab's wipers went 'eek-eek'. The bundle was trying to roll over the Y-shaped crash barrier – all that prevented him from
being mown down by the four lanes of traffic, traffic that came whipping past the war memorial where bronze corpses lay beneath
concrete howitzers. Tatty coaches full of carrot-crunchers up for the Xmas wallet fuck, pale-skinned, rust-grazed Transit vans with England flags taped across their back windows, boogaloo bruvvers in Seven Series BMWs, throw-cushion specialists in skateboard-sized Smart cars, Conan-the-fucking-Barbarian motorcycle couriers, warped flat-bed trucks piled high with scrap metal, one-eyed old Routemaster buses – the whole stinky caravan of London wholesale-to-retail,
five credit-worthy days before Christmas was intent on crushing this bit of Yank, wannabe roadkill … So Dave slewed the Fairway over to the nearside lane and waited to see whether he'd make it.
    He did. He came puffing up to the driver-side window. 'Sir, sir, excuse me, sir …' Sir, sir?! Is he fucking insane? 'Thank you for stopping.' He's going to ask me if I know which theatre The King and I is playing at. Stupid cunt. 'Could you take me to …' The Yank drew a piece of paper from his trench-coat pocket and consulted it. 'Mill Hill…'
He said the two words slowly and distinctly, as if they might be difficult for Dave to comprehend. 'If that's … that's
not kinduv of beyond your range?' My range, what does he think I am, some fucking wild boar? Dave pictured beastly London cabs, rolling in the roadway, shaking their metal shoulders to rid themselves of railings hurled
by Hoorays starved of sport.
    'Get in, please.' Dave bent his arm out of the window and opened the door, then he shrugged back inside and hit the meter.
The bundle bowled in, a grateful