The Deportees Read Free

had been singing 'Whiskey in the Jar' when Larry and Mona had stopped dancing and kissed for the first time.
    And now he could talk.
    —Phil Lynott was Irish! he said. —He was from Crumlin. He was fuckin' civilised!
    And now Stephanie was right in front of him, tears streaming from her, and he couldn't hear a word she was screaming at him. And he couldn't see her himself now, his own tears were fighting their way out. And he wished, he wished to Christ that they could start all over again, that he could sit down and listen and stop it before all this had to happen.
    It was Mona who rescued him.
    —We'll have to meet him, she said.
    This was just after she'd hit the table with the frying pan.
    —No, said Larry.
    —Yes, Larry, she said, and he knew she was right. If he kept saying No they'd all leave, all the girls. It was what he would have expected of them. 'Stand up for your rights.' That was what he'd roared after them every morning, on their way out to school. 'Get up, stand up. Don't give up the fight.'
    The house was empty now. Mona had imposed a ragged peace. Larry and Stephanie had hugged each other, yards of brittle space between them. The girls had taken her down to the local. They'd be talking about him now, he knew. Racist. Bastard. Racist. Pig. His cup was empty but he hadn't noticed the tea.
    —It could be worse, love, said Mona.
    Larry looked at her.
    —He could have been an estate agent, she said.

3 AIDS, War, the Works
    —Ben, said Mona, sounding just a little bit impatient.
    —Ben?
    —Yeah, she said. —It hasn't changed since the last time you asked.
    —It's just, I'm hopeless with foreign names, said Larry.
    And Mona slammed the door. Larry watched her out in the garden, murdering the hedge with bites of the shears that, he knew, were meant for him.
    It had been a week since the blow-up with Stephanie, since the invite had gone out to the black lad – he kept forgetting his name. He really did.
    —Ben.
    And he – Ben – was coming tonight. Larry looked at his watch. In three or four hours.
    He looked out at Mona.
    She was worried as well, upset, just like him. He wasn't the only one who'd been lying awake at night. She'd been getting up, wandering around downstairs. She wasn't a happy woman out there.
    It had been a week of politeness, smiles and heavy silences. He could hear cutlery on the plates for the first time in years. He tortured himself for things to say, nice things that would prove he wasn't a bigot.
    —Does he know Kanu? he asked Stephanie. And he couldn't believe it as he heard himself.
    —Who? said Stephanie.
    —The footballer, said Larry. He was stuck now. —He's Nigerian. Plays for Arsenal.
    —I don't know, said Stephanie. —Do you know Roy Keane?
    —No.
    —Well, then.
    And then she smiled, and there was a hint of an apology in it; she didn't want to make a fool of him. And he'd smiled. They'd all smiled. But, still and all, it had been the worst week that Larry could remember. All week, he'd had to think, and ask himself rough questions.
    He asked himself questions all the time. Where did I leave my keys? Will I have the last HobNob or will I leave it for Mona? But it was a long time since a question had made him squirm. And he'd been squirming all week.
    He wasn't a racist. He was sure about that now, positive – he thought. When he watched a footballer, for example, he didn't see skin; he saw skill. Paul McGrath, black and brilliant. Gary Breen, white and shite. And it was the same with music. Phil Lynott, absolutely brilliant. Neil Diamond, absolutely shite. And politics. Mandela, a hero. Ahern, a chancer. And women too. Naomi Campbell – Jaysis. There wasn't a racist bone or muscle in his body, nothing tugging at him to change his mind about Stevie Wonder or Thierry Henry because they were black. And it worked the other way too. Gary Breen, black, still shite but no worse. Naomi Campbell, white, probably still gorgeous but better off black. Bertie Ahern, black