The Deportees

  —No, said Ray. —I'm not.

  And Stalin kicked him in the head.

  —Okay okay, said Ray. —I am. For fuck sake.

  His mother's face was waiting for him when he stood up.

  —I blame myself, she said.

  The Minister was in the chair, in front of the screen, straps and monitors in all the right places.

  —Am I going to enjoy this, Raymond? he said.

  —Some of it, said Ray.

  He pressed Play and let the Minister have it. The best and the worst of Ireland, a jagged line of green hills and bared arses, fiddle and feedback. Ray watched the shifting score of the Minister's Irishness. 'The Fields of Athenry' sent him into the 80s, but a quick blast of Joe Duffy dropped him back down. The Riordans picked him up, and the Chemotherapy Virgins kicked him in the bollix. Five minutes later, the Minister was falling under the 40 mark – 'Teenage Kicks', Disco Pigs – but a pornstar's fanny dragged him over the finish line.

  —Was that Shamrock Chambers? he asked.

  —Yep, said Ray.

  —I went to school with her mammy. How did I do?

  —57 per cent.

  —What? A feckin' C minus?

  —Perfecto, said Ray.

  —I spoilt him, his mother told Stalin.

  —Yehss.

  —I can only blame myself, said his mother.

  —For sure, said Stalin. —But him too.

  She stared at Ray.

  —So, said Ray. —How the fuck are you?

  —Much bett-her.

  And she whacked him again.

  —Good girl, said his mother. —I wish I had it in me.

  Ray explained it to the Minister.

  —Your response to one image or sound can send you to a series of images or sounds that will bring your score up, or down.

  —Grand.

  —Depending on whether we want to bring it up, or down.

  —And no one will know?

  —Only the chosen few, said Ray. —It's all in the program.

  —Good man. And what's the average mark?

  Ray shrugged.

  —57 per cent.

  —My mark, said the Minister. —So that would make me the average Irishman?

  Ray shrugged again.

  —Do you like the sound of that? he said.

  —I do, yes, said the Minister.

  He blinked.

  —I consider it an honour. Average has always been good enough for me.

  Ray got his legs out from behind the chair legs. Now was the time.

  —I need somewhere to stay, he said.

  6 Moroccan Chicken

  The house was surprisingly small.

  —Mind you, Raymond, said the Minister. —It's one of many. We've the big one at home, this one, a little place in Spain, and a couple of apartments round and about. You wouldn't want that kind of responsibility, would you, Raymond?

  —No, said Ray.

  —No, said the Minister. —You wouldn't.

  The front door was right on the street. The Minister rang the bell.

  —I have my keys, said the Minister. —But I prefer to be let in. It's a nice way to end the day.

  —Cool, said Ray.

  The Minister stepped back and looked up at the house.

  —You'd never guess that this was the home of the nineteenth most powerful man in the country, would you, Raymond?

  —No, said Ray.

  —No, said the Minister. —You wouldn't. It's modest, isn't it?

  —Yes, said Ray.

  —The way I like it, said the Minister, and the door opened. —And here's Mrs Minister.

  She was an attractive, smiling woman. And, Ray realised, as she put her hand out and missed his, she was pissed as a rat.

  —Get in out of the cold, she said.

  It was July.

  —Come on in, come in.

  Ray followed the Minister down the narrow hall and the Minister's wife was behind him. Right behind him – her foot caught the back of his shoe. He stopped and she walked into him, and her hands were on his hips.

  —Oooh Lord, she said, and laughed.

  She let go.

  —Go on, go on.

  The Minister was bending down at the Aga when Ray got to the kitchen door, and her hand was on his arse. Then not, and she walked past him.

  —How's that for a smell? said the Minister.

  He brought a baking tray to the table. The kitchen was nice, all wood and a ticking clock.

  —Take a pew now, said the Minister as he took off the oven gloves. —And tell me what you think of my Moroccan baked chicken with chickpeas.

  —He's the chef here, said Mrs Minister.

  —That's correct, said the Minister. —It's Upstairs, Downstairs in this house. I'm Downstairs. And guess what that makes that lady there.

  They both laughed and sat down. She patted a chair beside her. And Ray sat.

  The food was great; the chicken broke in his mouth.

  —Wicked.

  —Yes, said the Minister. —But how would it do with our Fáilte Score, Raymond?

  —Don't know, said Ray.

  —Mind you, said the Minister. —The chicken came from Monaghan. It's only the chickpeas that'd get sent out to the airport.

  He pushed his chair back from the table.

  —Now. Is Raymond's room ready?

  —Nice and snug for him, said Mrs Minister.

  She winked at Ray. The Minister stood up.

  —Come on, so.

  Ray untangled his legs from the chair. The food had been good but he was suddenly convinced that Mr and Mrs Minister were going to do something to him. The chicken was coming back up his throat, in a very fast race with the chickpeas.

  But the Minister took car keys from a hook. And Mrs Minister's eyes were closing; her head was dangling over her dinner. Ray didn't vomit. If he lays a hand on me, he thought, I'll blackmail the fucker.

  —I've never strayed, the Minister told Ray.

  They were in a two-door Audi that had been parked outside the Minister's house. They'd crossed the river and gone up O'Connell Street, past what was left of the Spike, but Ray was lost now.

  —A man like me, said the Minister. —Women find me attractive. Worth the conquering.

  He slapped Ray's leg.

  —But not once. I love my wife, Raymond. I adore the ground she walks on. Men are often reluctant to talk about these things. What about you, Raymond?

  —It's cool.

  —What is?

  —Talking about it.

  —About what, Raymond?

  —Love and that.

  The Minister slowed the car, and parked. Ray didn't know where they were. The street was narrow and old; the houses were mean looking.

  The Minister handed a set of keys to Raymond.

  —She collects every Friday. Leave it on the table if you're not staying in.

  —What?

  —The rent. My wife collects the rent.

  Raymond looked out the window.

  —Number Thirteen, Raymond. Your room is on the second landing. You'll like it. Off you go now.

  The hall was a mixture of smells and noise. Stew, a nappy, laughter, a cough. A bike against the wall. An ancient hoover. A buggy. He climbed the stairs. Music he didn't recognise. A woman singing. More of the laughter. A crying baby. Peeling wallpaper, but not too bad.

  He found his door and unlocked it.

  He turned on the light.

  A black man sat up in the bed.

  —Sorry, said Ray.

  He got out and shut the door. A door behind him opened. He turned.

  —Hi, said Ray.

  He was looking at Stalin.

  7 Old Mister Brennan

  —Hi, said Ray.

  The kid was behind Stalin's legs, looking out at Ray. Stalin was looking at the bag in Ray's hand. He was going to tell her the truth, that he'd no idea that she lived here, that he'd actually thought he was moving into the room next door, that there'
d been a big black guy in the bed when he'd walked in, that he'd just stepped out of that room as she was coming out of her own. He was going to tell her the truth.

  But he didn't. He changed his mind. That look on her face, as she looked at the bag. He let her make up her own truth.

  —You have come back to us, she said.

  —Yes, said Ray.

  —Fuck off, said Stalin.

  She grabbed the kid's hand and pushed past Ray, down the stairs. And Ray was still standing there when they came back, with bread and a carton of milk, and a lollipop in the kid's mouth.

  —What flavour? said Ray.

  —Fuck off, said Stalin.

  —You shouldn't talk like that in front of the boy, said Ray.

  And she hit him across the head with old Mr Brennan. It was fresh and didn't hurt.

  —Do not tell me what to talk!

  And she hit him with the carton. The milk was fresh too but it stung the fuckin' ear off him. Ray stood there and took the pain. He'd made a decision. Stalin shut the door.

  Ray stood there. For quite a while. Doors below him opened, closed. Songs changed. A kettle sang, and stopped. He was going to stand his ground; she'd see that he was serious. As long as it took. He'd stay there. He looked at his watch. Midnight; coming up to. No music now; no fresh smells. It was very dark. He moved closer to the door. He listened. Nothing. Asleep, more than likely.

  He was tired now, and cold. She'd be up in eight or nine hours. And she'd see him, and his determination. His contrition. His love.

  The door downstairs opened. Voices. Men. Russian. On the stairs now. Getting nearer.

  —Fuck this, said Ray.

  He found the key.

  The black man was still in the bed.

  —Don't mind me, said Ray.

  He shut the door. The black man lay back down and covered his head. Ray put his ear to the door.

  The Russian guys were at Stalin's door now. He could hear them. Pushing it, thumping. Whispering.

  He heard it open, close. Something falling. Crying.

  The kid.

  —What did you do, Raymond? said the Minister.

  —I kicked the door down, said Ray.

  —Good man, said the Minister. —You saved the day.

  Actually, Ray asked the black guy to kick the door down for him.

  —Eh, hello, he said. —Hello?

  The head came out from under the cover.

  —Hello.

  —You wouldn't give us a hand here, would you? said Ray. —Only, there's a couple of Russian gangsters out there beating up my wife and child.

  The black guy got out of the bed – T-shirt, boxers, black socks. Ray followed him out to the landing. The black guy knocked on Stalin's door.

  Stalin opened it.

  —Darya Alexandrovna, said the black guy. —Good evening. This gentleman here—

  Ray had hopped back behind the door.

  —has informed me that he is your husband and that your brothers have been assaulting both you and Vladimir.

  The Minister looked at Ray's black eye.

  —It's even worse than the other one, he said.

  —Yeah.

  —So, you want to move?

  —No.

  She didn't do it on purpose; he was pretty sure of that. She threw herself at the door, but she couldn't have known that Ray was right behind it. The Chubb smacked his eye and he was alone on the floor for a while – it might have been an hour – when the black guy came back. Ray opened the other eye, and he was there.

  —Darya Alexandrovna invites you to join her for hot chocolate, said the black guy. —Me too, but she insists that I first put on my trousers.

  And that was it. He went into her room and sat on the floor with her brothers – two young, skinny guys who whispered to each other – and the black guy, Itayi, from Zimbabwe.

  —Near South Africa? said Ray.

  —Yes. And you?

  —Templeogue.

  —Near Tallaght?

  —Yeah.

  The kid was asleep in the bed. Ray could see his hair, and his forehead. He held his cup for a long time before he started drinking, and the warmth seemed to creep through him, right to his eye, and the pain wasn't there as he looked at Stalin sitting neat in the only good chair in the room, her legs tucked under her.

  —So, said the Minister. —Today's the big day, Raymond.

  —Yeah, said Ray.

  —The Fáilte Score goes into action.

  —Yeah.

  8 My Little Apparatchik

  Home, for two nights, was Itayi's floor.

  —We can't have that, said the Minister, when Ray told him that he didn't have a bed.

  And Mrs Minister arrived with a mattress. Ray met her on the stairs with it. She'd stopped halfway up for a rest.

  —It's new, said Mrs Minister.

  It was still in the plastic. Thin, single and – he squeezed it – foam.

  —Like you, said Stalin, when he told her about it later. —Theen, seeng-le and foam.

  He smiled.

  —D'you know what she told me? said the Minister the following morning, after he told Ray how rested he looked. —She thought the African lad would give you the bed and sleep on the floor. Isn't that gas?

  —Yeah, said Ray.

  —She's a bit old-fashioned, said the Minister.

  Ray shrugged.