The Deportees Read Free Page A

– Larry laughed for the first time in a week.
    But, why then? Why didn't he want a refugee in the family?
    Well, there was AIDS for a start. Africa was riddled with it. And then there was – it wasn't the poverty, exactly – it was the hugeness of it, the Live Aid pictures, the thou sands and thousands of people, the flies on their faces, the dead kids. Heartbreaking, but – what sort of a society was that? What sort of people came out of a place like that? And all the civil wars – machetes and machine-guns, and burning car tyres draped around people's necks, the savagery. Fair enough, the man was an accountant but that was the place he came from. And why had he left – what was wrong with Nigeria? He could be a criminal, like Al Pacino being thrown out of Cuba in Scarface. He could be one of those religious fanatics, or married already, two or three times for all they knew. And they'd never know – it was too far away. It was too different; that was it. Too unknowable, and too frightening for his daughter.
    —Ben, he said quietly. —Howyeh, Ben. Great weather. Must remind you of home.
    Could he say that? He didn't see why not. But he didn't want to hurt the lad's feelings, or get into trouble with the women. He'd be polite, fair. He'd like the lad – Ben – he'd shake his hand, and hold it long enough to prove that it wasn't about his skin.
    But then what was going to happen?
    He had his answers, his objections – AIDS, war, the works. But how could he list them off when they were having their dinner? And, more to the point, how could he do it if he wasn't certain, in his heart of hearts, that they were his real objections?
    Larry was an honest man, but it was a long time since he'd had to prove it.
    He looked at his watch.
    The time was crawling. And that suited Larry just fine. He was dreading the dinner, terrified of what was going to happen.

4 A Gorgeous Smell
    That was the bell.
    Damn it, he had one leg in his underpants, the other one hanging over the floor. Larry had wanted to be down there to meet the black lad – Ben – at the door. Hello, Ben – not howyeh, he'd decided – 'Great weather. Must remind you of home.' But here he was, up in the bedroom, fighting his knickers. This wasn't what he'd planned at all. He didn't want Mona and the girls thinking that he was avoiding the lad, that he was being rude or just ignorant.
    —Calm down, calm down, he told his fingers as they tried to button his shirt.
    He'd decided against the suit. The young fella would probably be in a tracksuit. So Larry was dressing himself a bit up from that, just enough to impose his authority – the older man, the citizen, the firm but fair father. So he'd chosen the good trousers and a clean shirt, no tie. And his black shoes – where were the stupid bloody things?
    Under the bloody bed. Bang in the middle, just out of reach. For a second – less than a second – he saw Mona down on her hunkers, shoving them in under there with the brush. But he shook himself; he was being stupid. He put on his runners; they were grand – nearly new, still white.
    He took a quick goo at himself in the wardrobe mirror.
    He'd do. He took the corner of toilet paper from just under his chin. The blood clot came with it. He was grand now, ready.
    Down the stairs. Into the front room. There they all were, squeezed in. He saw all the girls first, Stephanie and Vanessa and – where was the black fella? Maybe it hadn't been him at the door at all – but Tracy stepped aside and there he was.
    In a fuckin' suit.
    The best, most elegant suit Larry had ever been close to. A small lad – very, very black – and completely at home in the suit. The wall looked filthy behind him.
    —Howyeh, Ben, said Larry.
    Damn it, he'd said Howyeh.
    He took the couple of steps to shake hands with him.
    The first black hand Larry had ever shaken. He felt sophisticated – not a bother on him – shaking a black hand. Not even looking at it.
    He'd been expecting