The Deportees

by Roddy Doyle

  —Will we try it out? Mrs Minister said to Ray as she watched him lower the mattress into a corner.

  —Eh—

  —I'm only joking with you.

  She waved, and he heard her feet on the stairs. He let himself drop onto the mattress.

  —So you have your bed, said the Minister.

  —Yeah, said Ray.

  He didn't. Just the mattress. But he couldn't cope with another visit from Mrs Minister, with a bed on her back. He was happy enough, just a thin wall between him and Stalin.

  He was in the Minister's office every morning, in that first week of the Fáilte Score.

  —How are we doing, Raymond?

  —Good, said Ray. —No fuck-ups yesterday.

  —Grand.

  There'd been problems with the monitor-pads. On day one, a Ghanaian crossed his legs during the test, and that action had delivered three minutes of hardcore Irish pornography, and sent his score soaring to 97 per cent.

  —And now he's the most Irish man in the country.

  Not only that, the Ghanaian had complained about it. He was looking for compensation.

  —More Irish yet, said the Minister. —We'll keep him. But we can't have more slip-ups like that, Raymond. How's the room?

  —Cool.

  —How's the African fella?

  —Cool.

  —Do we not pay you enough, Raymond?

  Ray could have well afforded somewhere better, a bed with legs, his own jacks, a kitchen. He had money in the bank these days; he had two suits and a car loan.

  He shrugged.

  —I like it, he said.

  —Research, said the Minister.

  —Yeah.

  —Good man.

  Inside a few days, he had his routine. He brought the kid to the park after work, to kick a ball around. It was a struggle at first. Ray kicked the ball to the kid, and the kid stood looking at it. On the third night, Vladimir kicked the ball back to Ray. A hopeless kick, no power in it, no accuracy, but Ray was happy enough. He always reserved a last burst of parental energy for the stairs; he made sure that he made Vlad laugh, a tickle, a mad face, son and dad laughing as Stalin opened the door. And then the hot chocolate. Every night, just the three of them.

  The sex was a shock. It had been a long-term hope; next week, maybe even give it a month. But there they were, on the floor, rubbing at each other, while Vlad slept in the bed. Ray took off his jumper. His head got stuck, and she pulled. He watched her unlace her boots. God, she was gorgeous, and generous. Because, he had to admit, he wasn't looking the best. One eye was black, the other was yellow; the big spot on his forehead had been joined by a couple of mates. He was a thin man but – he couldn't figure it out – he'd grown himself a bit of a gut.

  —I'm thinking of joining a gym, he said.

  She patted his stomach.

  —My lee-tle apparatchik.

  They lay on the floor with a sleeping bag over them. Next door, Itayi was running the tap, and singing.

  —THE PIPES, THE PIPES ARE CALL–ING—

  —I love you, said Ray.

  She said nothing back. He couldn't feel her soften; no tears wet his shoulder. He didn't mind. He'd wait, as long as it took; a week, maybe a month. He'd wait.

  He drove out to his mother's on the Sunday.

  —I'm back with Darya, he told her.

  She looked at him, and away.

  —I'm past caring, Raymond, she said.

  —I'm thinking of joining a gym, said Ray.

  He slept that night on Stalin's floor, with her brothers, and he was in good and early on Monday morning.

  The Minister was there before him.

  —Raymond, he said. —Cast your eyes on these.

  He slid pages of names across the desk.

  —We're doing well with the Africans, said the Minister. —But it's time to move in on the lads and lassies from the edge of our European home.

  Ray saw her name before the Minister had finished.

  9 The Toblerone

  Ray looked at Stalin's name on the Fáilte list.

  —There's a woman here, he said. —And she has a kid born in this country.

  —We ironed out that difficulty some years ago, Raymond, said the Minister. —The child's nationality does not entitle his mother or father—

  I'm his fuckin' father, thought Ray.

  —to citizenship or residency rights. The child is welcome to stay, or he can come back to Eireann when he's had enough of his mammy.

  —What if the father's Irish? said Ray.

  —Does it say that there?

  —No.

  —Well then, said the Minister. —Don't let it come between you and your sleep.

  Ray kept his eyes on the list.

  —Are you sleeping well these nights, Raymond?

  —Yeah, said Ray. —Fine.

  —Good, said the Minister.

  —Why? said Stalin that night.

  She was looking at the huge, melting Toblerone in Vladimir's hands. He'd barely touched it but he was already sick and speeding.

  —He's to share it with you, said Ray.

  She was staring at him.

  —Why?

  Guilt, said Ray, to himself.

  —I'm his dad, he said to Stalin.

  She stared at him, then took the chocolate from Vlad and pushed it at Ray.

  He was alone now, next door, on Itayi's floor. He let himself settle into the mattress, his mouth full of Toblerone, when the door opened. Stalin. He sat up and tried to swallow the chocolate.

  —It's only me.

  It was Mrs Minister.

  She turned on the light and saw Ray dying.

  —Oh Lord.

  She ran at Ray. She was drunk, and missed. The chocolate was a solid block in his gullet; it wouldn't melt, he couldn't swallow. She dropped down beside him. She thumped his back.

  The chocolate was getting bigger, harder.

  She thumped again.

  He heard himself groan, far away. His chest was exploding, her fingers at his mouth. He felt her engagement ring; it cut his lip. He blacked out. He was awake. Her fingers were in his mouth. He wanted to die.

  Air.

  He wanted to die.

  Air.

  He opened his eyes, and saw Mrs Minister, above him, licking her fingers. She winked at him.

  —Back to life, she said.

  She leaned down. He could smell the gin and chocolate.

  —What about the kiss of life?

  He saw her tongue coming at him, and he got out from under there; he pushed with strength he'd never had. He dashed to the door, the landing. He knocked at Stalin's door.

  —Can I come in?

  She looked at Mrs Minister's fingerprints on his chest, his thigh.

  —Ah yes, she said. —Rent-night.

  She stepped back, and let him in.

  And again, the sex surprised Ray. And, if he was honest, he wouldn't have messed with the Fáilte Score if it hadn't been for the sex that night. Although maybe he would have; he wasn't sure – he was rarely honest.

  Anyway, true or not, he told Stalin.

  —That ride just changed the course of Irish history.

  She knew: he was fishing for another one.

  —Now you must change the course of Rossian history.

  When, two weeks later, Stalin went to do her Fáilte test, there was no sign of Ray. She sat in front of a screen that delivered Behan and Chekhov, Christchurch and the Kremlin. It was boring, but she still scored 83 per cent. She met Ray for lunch, in a new place on Trimble Street.

  —How did you get on?

  She answered the Irish way.

  —Grand.

  —Cool, said Ray.

  He looked down at his plate.

  —I was thinking, he said.

  He looked up.

  —We should maybe get somewhere bigger.

  He watched her and waited.

  She shrugged.

  —Okay.

  That af
ternoon Ray turned fourteen nervous Ukrainians into fourteen happy Irishmen and women. And then, Mrs Minister said something to the Mexican ambassador. The words were never reported but in the quick reshuffle that followed the poor man's suicide, the Minister lost Arts and Ethnicity, and Ray disappeared. Ethnicity was merged with the Department of the Marine and Ray kept drawing his pay and working the Fáilte Score. By the time he was discovered, after the Board of Works knocked down a wall, Ray had granted Irish citizenship to over 800,000 Africans and East Europeans. He had four kids, a grandchild and, somewhere in her mid-forties, Stalin turned into Gorbachev. Still imperious, still forceful, but much nicer. Ray was a happy man.

  He sat at the window with his brother and watched his pint settle. They were in the Colin Farrell, on Liffey Street. It was his fiftieth birthday and he'd retired that afternoon.

  —Look, said his brother.

  —What?

  —An Irishman.

  Ray looked.

  —Where?

  —There, look; at the lights. Scratching his arse.

  —Ah, yeah.

  —Haven't seen one like him in years. What happened, Ray?

  —Haven't a clue, said Ray.

  He picked up his pint.

  —Cheers.

  —Ah yeah; cheers.

  Black Hoodie

  1

  My girlfriend is Nigerian, kind of, and when we go through the shops, we're followed all the way. We stop – the security guards stop. We go up the escalator – they're three steps behind us, and there's another one waiting at the top. We look at something, say, a shoe, and they all look at us looking at the shoe. And people – ordinary people, like – they see the security guards looking at us, and they stop and start looking at us, in case something good's going to happen. You're never lonely if you're with a black girl, or even if your hoodie is black. There's always someone following you – 'Move along, move along' – making sure you're getting your daily exercise.

  I'm not complaining. I'm just stating the facts.

  That's the first thing the Guards – the real cops, not the security guards – it's the first thing they learn when they're doing their training down the country. How to say 'Move along' in 168 different languages. Even before they learn how to eat their jumbo rolls without getting butter all over their shirts.

  I said she was Nigerian, kind of. I didn't mean she was kind of Nigerian. I meant she's kind of my girlfriend. She's lovely and, I have to admit, I kind of like the attention. No one really noticed me until I started going with her, kind of. Now they all look, and you can see it in their faces; they're thinking, There's a white fella with a black girl, or something along those lines. I'm the white fella. It's better than nothing.

  I'm dead into her. I'd love it if she was my girlfriend – full time, like. My da says I should just go ahead and ask her. But I don't know. That's what he must have done, a hundred years ago, and he ended up with my ma. So, I'm not sure. What if she says No?

  But it's a bit gay at the moment. We're friends – do you know what I mean? And that's grand; it's not too bad. But I'd love to, like, hold her a bit and kiss her.

  I'm not telling you her name. And that means I can't use my own name either. Because, how many Nigerian girls is the average Irish teenager going to be hanging around with, even here in multicultural, we-love-the-fuckin'-foreigners Dublin? If I give my name, I might as well give hers. So, no.

  So, there we are, myself and my Nigerian friend, and we're walking through the shop, being tailed by the Feds. And meanwhile, our friend, who's in a—

  And now, there's another problem. There's a fella in a wheelchair in the story. How many male teenagers in the greater Dublin area share their leisure time with young men in wheelchairs and Nigerian women?

  Our friend is in a wheelchair, but he doesn't need it. It's his brother's. His brother is in McDonald's, waiting for us. He doesn't have much of a choice, because we have his wheelchair. And he needs it, badly. There's a ginormous milkshake cup in front of him. It's empty. The shake's in him, and he's bursting. He's full of vanilla and the jacks is down the back, miles – sorry, kilometres away.

  And his brother has his wheelchair. He's in the same shop as us – that's me and the Nigerian bird. And while the Feds follow me because (a) I'm with a black person, and (b) I'm wearing a hoodie, he's robbing everything he can stretch to, because (a) he's in the wheelchair, and (b) he's wearing glasses. And no one follows him. In fact, everyone wants to help him.

  It's an experiment. Market research. I'll explain in a minute.

  His brother is sliding towards the jacks when we get back to McDonald's. He's halfway there and, so far, €8.56 has been thrown at him.

  Let me explain.

  We aren't robbing the stuff because we want it, or just for the buzz. No. We are a mini-company. Three of us are in Transition Year, in school. The brother who actually owns the wheelchair isn't. He's in Sixth Year. We used to call him Superman, but he asked us to stop after Christopher Reeve died; it was upsetting his ma whenever she answered the landline. 'Is Superman there?' So, fair enough; we stopped.

  Anyway, as part of our Transition Year programme, me and Ms Nigeria and not-Superman's brother had to form a mini-company, to help us learn about the real world and commerce and that. And we didn't want to do the usual stuff, like making sock hangers and Rice Krispie cakes. So, we sat at a desk and, watched closely by our delightful teacher, Ms They-Don't-Know-I-Was-Locked-Last-Night, we came up with the idea, and the name.

  Black Hoodie Solutions.

  2

  I'm not all that sure about Transition Year. Like, learning to drive is on the curriculum, and that sounds a lot better than Maths or Religion. But then you find out there's no car. Mr I'm-So-Cool-In-My-Jacket says something about insurance and us being too young, and we end up learning to drive by looking at the blackboard. I'm serious. He draws a circle on the board with a piece of red chalk.

  —That now, ladies and gentlemen, is – a – roundabout.

  And he shows us how to negotiate it, with a piece of white chalk.

  So, it's good and it's bad. Sound Recording is cool, and First Aid is good crack. Bedsit Cookery isn't too bad. But Teen Thoughts! It's so bad, so – worse than shite. The teacher, Ms I'm-Not-Really-A-Teacher, sits on top of her desk and says something like, 'Hey, guys. Girls masturbate too. Surprised?' And she expects us to discuss it. I'm not making this up. She just sits there, waiting. 'Anybody?'