The Deportees

by Roddy Doyle

  —If I was you, love, he says, —I'd keep my trap shut for a while.

  She looks back at him.

  —And don't worry, he says. —We don't torture people in this country. Amn't I right, lads?

  I dip the head before he can look at me properly. But then I do it – I feel it, in my neck: I'm telling myself to look back at him. And I do. And – oh shite.

  —Wipe it, he says.

  —What? – I have to cough a bit before the word gets out.

  —The look off your face, he says. —Before someone else wipes it for you.

  I look back at him for as long as I can. Then I look away.

  —Good man.

  I have the shakes, bad. like, my handcuffs are rattling against the back of the chair. But – this is weird – I'm happy. Just for a bit. Ms Nigeria isn't doing any more protesting and your man telling me to wipe the look off my face – I've kind of caught up with her. I'm feeling a bit brave.

  The door opens.

  OH SHIT OH SHIT.

  —You.

  It's me.

  —You.

  It's definitely me. He's pointing at me.

  Not-Superman's brother just about makes it to the nearest chair. He kind of crawls up onto it, like it's a huge mouth and he wants to be eaten.

  It's my turn.

  OH SHIT.

  I stand up – I can.

  I walk. I look at the plainclothes cop as I get nearer. I don't – I do. I do and I don't. I look at his shoulder. I walk past him. Into his room.

  A desk and two chairs. That's the room. Not even a Wanted poster or one of those two-way mirrors. Oh, and there's a video camera, on a tripod, beside the table.

  I don't sit down.

  —Sit down.

  I sit down. He leans over the table. I can see his teeth.

  —Another of the hoodies, he says.

  He goes to the camera. He looks at the screen thing. He adjusts the lens.

  —Put the hood up, he says.

  —Why?

  He stares at me.

  —I can't, I say. —My hands are cuffed.

  He goes behind me and pulls the hood over my head. It's right down to my eyes. He takes off my handcuffs. He holds my arms behind my back – hard, like. He lets go. He goes back to the camera.

  I take the hoodie off my head.

  —Put it back, he says.

  —Why? I ask.

  He stares.

  My hands are shaking, sore. I put the hood back up.

  —That's the ticket, he says. —Any tattoos?

  —Me?

  —Yeah.

  —No.

  —Ah well, he says. —You still look the part.

  He stares at me.

  He turns the camera on. He sits.

  —Thursday, 14th of November, he says. —Name?

  I tell him.

  —Age?

  I tell him.

  —Would you take the hood down, please? he says.

  I don't. Like, I don't know what he really wants me to do.

  —The hood, he says.

  I lift my hand. I pull the hood back off my head. There's nothing else I can do. I'm only copping on, why he made me put it up in the first place. It's on video, like – the proof. I'm wearing a hoodie. I must be guilty.

  6

  He speaks without looking at me.

  —Tell me what occurred this afternoon, he says.

  Now he looks.

  —Take your time.

  —Like ... I start.

  It should be easy. I know exactly what happened. There's nothing I have to hide – except the sweets.

  —Like ... I start again.

  But I don't know how to start. How to make it sound straightforward and normal. He thinks I'm guilty already. And so do I. That's the problem.

  —We were doing a project, I say.

  It's nothing to do with the sweets. It's the way it's all done. The camera, making me put up my hoodie. I must have done something. I deserve to be here.

  I know I don't. I know – in my head, like. I'm innocent – forget about the sweets for a sec. But I feel guilty. The camera is telling me that, and the soreness where the cuffs were. The way I look – I deserve this.

  You're probably thinking, Jesus, he's giving in quickly. Thank God he wasn't in the War of Independence, or whatever. We'd never have won it. But I don't give in. I tell him nothing that didn't actually happen. But I feel all the time that he's going to catch me out.

  —Project? he says.

  —Yeah.

  I'm messing with the string of my hoodie, in front of the camera. I stop.

  —Tell me a bit about this project, he says.

  —It's a mini-company, I say.

  —Buying and selling? he says.

  —No, I say.

  —Selling, anyway. Robbing and selling.

  —No.

  —No?

  —Not really, I say.

  He shifts in his chair. His foot kind of slides across my shin.

  —The goods were in your possession—

  He says my name.

  —We were still in the shop, I say.

  —You'd left.

  —We came back.

  —Okay, he says. —Why?

  —To give them back, I say. —That's the project, like. It's about stereotyping.

  He looks like he wants to lean over and whack me. A lot of people look that way when they hear that word stereotype.

  —Go on, he says.

  —Like, I say. —Me and – Name Omitted – walked around the shop and because of the way we look—

  I hold the hoodie and shake it a bit.

  —The hoodie and her skin and that, the security guards followed us all over the place. And the fella in the wheelchair took the stuff in the bag, the dress and the shoe and – I forget the other thing.

  —Shin-guards, he says.

  —Yeah, I say. —Thanks. He took them and no one watched him because he doesn't look the type and they left him alone.

  —Go on.

  —That's it, I say.

  I'm hoping he's heard enough. If I go much further, I'll be telling him that (a) he got it wrong, and (b) he's a racist. But—

  —Go on, he says.

  I have to. The camera's on me.

  —Well, I say. —Like, we brought the stuff back into the shop. And then we were going to explain what we'd done and show them how we'd done it. How they were losing money because of their prejudices. And they'd pay us a fee.

  He's looking at me. I don't think he's happy. But, funny, I don't care that much. I'm kind of proud of myself. I've explained what we did. I think I've been clear.

  —We'd done it already, I tell him. —In other shops, like. And they paid us.

  I wish Ms Nigeria was with me. I think she'd be impressed. I know I am. I'm going to do Law after the Leaving.

  He stands up. He turns off the camera. OH SHIT. He's going to batter me – you should see his face.

  He stares – he stares. He's good at it.

  —Sorry about that, I say.

  —Fuckin' gobshite, he says.

  He walks across to the door. It opens before he gets there. It's the lady Guard.

  —The parents are here, she says.

  I know it's not my ma. She'd never come out, not even to save me from the electric chair. Not even to watch.

  It's my da. He smiles like it hurts. But he smiles.

  —Son.

  —Da.

  —A bit of bother.

  —Yeah. Sorry.

  —We'll deal with it.

  Just now, he's great. He's legend.

  I look across at Ms Nigeria. She still looks angry and lovely and—

  —I have to do something, Da, I say.

  He speaks very quietly. He actually whispers.

  —It might be better if we just go.

  —Not yet, I say. —I have to do it.

  He decides – he nods.

  —You know best, he says. —I'm with you.<
br />
  The plainclothes Garda has his back to us. He's walking away, to the front of the station.

  —Excuse me, I say. —Excuse ME.

  He stops. He turns. I hear my da say it.

  —Oh shit.

  7

  The Garda turns but he takes his time. It's like a film, a good one, like – it scares the crap out of me. There's complete silence. Even the buses outside have stopped – it feels like that. He doesn't look at me, or anyone. And his hands – they're kind of hanging at his hips. He's like your man, Henry Fonda, in Once Upon a Time in the West. He's going for his guns. Just as well he doesn't have any.

  It's still frightening but. All I can hear is the squeak of one of his shoes on the floor. Or maybe the squeak comes out of me, or even my da – I'm not sure.

  He stops – and he stares. At me.

  —Yes?

  He says that.

  —Eh.

  That's me – I say that.

  —What? he says.

  He doesn't look at my da, or anyone else. Just me. A man walks into the station behind him. It must be Ms Nigeria's da. He's black, like. And there's a woman behind him. She's black too. That'll be the ma. She's big.

  Henry Fonda is still staring at me. I've swallowed my tongue; there's nothing there.

  He sneers. I see it – the corner of his mouth. And, beside me, I hear my da breathe out. He's relieved. He thinks it's over – I can't stand up to the Garda and we can all go home. The cop starts to turn again, away from me. I can see Ms Nigeria. She's looking down the corridor at her ma and da. I'm losing my chance.

  But, bang on time, my tongue's back. It climbs back up from my stomach.

  —Eh.

  The cop stops. I speak.

  —What's your name, by the way?

  I hear him – he kind of whispers.

  —What?

  It doesn't look too bad there on the page, just the one word, like. But you'd want to have heard it. I hold onto my tongue; I don't let it escape. I ask him again.

  —What's your name?

  I hear my da.

  —Son ...

  I ignore him – I have to.

  The cop walks up nearer to me. He's not Henry Fonda now. He's become Dennis Hopper. I kind of miss Henry.

  —Why? he says.

  —Cos I'm going to report you.

  I can nearly see the words, going in an arc through the air, from my mouth to the space between his eyes, where his eyebrows join together.

  He doesn't go pale. He doesn't fall on his knees and beg for mercy. It's a pity.

  The room is frozen, everyone in it. It's, like, one big gasp. And Ms Nigeria – you should see her eyes. They're huge and lit, and they're looking at me. Her da is coming towards us. Her ma is right behind him.

  But back to the cop. He's coming straight at—

  Sorry for interrupting my own story here – but all this actually happened. I just want you to know that.

  Anyway. He's coming straight at me. Remember the sweets? They're back in my mouth, the taste, the sugar and that.

  —Report me for what?

  That's the cop.

  And listen to this.

  —For using racist language intended to inflict hurt on a member of an ethnic minority, I say.

  And I nod at Ms Nigeria.

  —Her.

  He doesn't say anything. Her da is right behind him now.

  —And for making me put my hoodie up in front of the camera, I say.

  I probably shouldn't have mentioned the hoodie. I can see it on her face: she's confused. The Fed is still looking at me and he's not confused at all. But there's no stopping me now. I'm starring in my own film. I'm Henry Fonda.

  —I'll probably let you away with the hoodie, I say. — But not the racism.

  —You're threatening me? says the Fed.

  —No, he's not, says Ms Nigeria.

  —No, I'm not, I agree.

  But – funny – I'm a little bit annoyed. I mean, I love her voice and the way she talks and that. But this is between me and the Fed, so I wish she'd just shut up for a bit and, like, admire me – just for a minute. Is that too much to ask?

  Anyway.

  —I just want to know your name, I tell the Fed – before she does.

  Her da's arrived and he looks the business. His suit is blue and serious looking. But the really serious thing about him is his face. He's the most serious-looking man I've ever seen. I'd say Ireland's overall seriousness went up at least 25 per cent the day he got here from Nigeria. Like, the situation was pretty serious before he came into the station. But now – Jaysis – it's an international crisis. I can tell from the heads on the cops: they wish they were in sunny Baghdad. And he hasn't even spoken yet.

  But now he does.

  8

  —What exactly is the problem here? says Ms Nigeria's da.

  His voice takes over the room, and the station, and the street – the dogs bark in Coolock and Clondalkin. He's huge. He's like a whole African country, Uganda or somewhere, that just stood up one day and put on a suit. Like, he's massive and so is his voice.

  And so is his wife – you should see her. If he's the country, she's the country's biggest lake or something.