The Deportees
Page 16
Then there's the mini-companies. They're a good idea, I suppose. But it would make a lot more sense if you could, say, open a shop – a real one, like – and sell CDs and DVDs, or whatever, for a week or two. Or open a restaurant, or start Dublin Bus or something. You'd definitely know more about your aptitudes and stuff after that. But, I know, it's not realistic. But what's the compromise? Rice Krispie cakes and babysitting. Like, you babysit for a bit, add up the amount of money you make, and this gives you a good idea of what it's like to be the boss of Microsoft. Yeah; maybe.
Anyway. We're having none of it. Me and Ms Nigeria and our friend whose brother owns the wheelchair. He's allergic to chocolate for a start. Something really disgusting happens to his skin if he even, like, looks at a Rolo. So that rules out the Rice Krispie cakes. Anyway, another group gets to that one before us, and they look so chuffed you'd swear they'd just invented eBay. And no way would I ever babysit, I don't care how much you pay me. Babies are weird.
So, like, we kind of just sit there while the other groups grab all the ace business opportunities. Painted light bulbs; shopping for old people; washing cars.
We're the last. And Ms They-Don't-Know-I-Was-Locked-Last-Night is staring at us, her pen, like, held right over her list, waiting for our brainwave.
And it comes.
—Stereotyping, says Ms Nigeria.
—What? says Ms They-Don't-Know etc. —I mean – what do you mean?
She puts on her big, interested face – Interesting! She's being extra-nice for the black girl. She looks like she might fall over.
—Well, says the young woman I secretly love, —we're constantly being labelled.
She always talks like that, like she's on the News or something. I like it – a lot.
—Oh, excellent! says Ms etc. —You're going to make labels. Accessorize.
—Well, says the Nigerian newsreader. —No, actually. You misunderstood.
Ms They-Don't-Know looks up misunderstood in the dictionary in her head. It takes a while – it's way at the back, behind her childhood memories and last night's empties. I watch the sweat climb out of her forehead.
—We're being clever, are we – Name Omitted? she says.
—No, says Name Omitted. —I'm quite happy to explain.
I'd be quite happy to lie down and lick her feet. But it probably isn't the time or the place.
—Go on, for God's sake, says Ms They-Don't-Know. —Go on.
—Well, says Name Omitted.
I sit up, like I know what's happening. Name Omitted waves her hand.
—We are all labelled and stereotyped, she says. — Automatically: We don't have to say or do anything. Even you are, Miss.
—Me?
—Yes.
—How am I – stereotyped? she asks. The big word comes out, slowly, like a table-tennis ball out of a magician's mouth.
—Well, says Ms Nigeria. —You look like you—
—Don't! said Ms They-Don't-Know.
She looks like she's going to cry.
—Just – go on.
—Okay, says Ms Nigeria. —For example. I walk into a shop and the security staff immediately decide that I am there to shoplift.
—Because you're black?
—Because I'm young, says Ms Nigeria. —And, yes, because I'm black.
Ms They-Don't-Know has recovered, a bit.
—What has this got to do with your mini-company?
—Well, says Name Omitted. —Can you imagine the wastage of man-hours and goodwill – oh, all sorts of things – that results directly from this?
She certainly knows her onions – whatever that means.
—Go on, says Ms They-Don't-Know.
—Well, says Name Omitted, —myself and my colleagues here – and she points at me and the other fella —are going to establish a consultancy firm, to advise retail outlets on stereotyping of young people, and best practice towards its elimination.
And that's how we end up in Pearse Street Garda Station.
3
It's me who comes up with the name, Black Hoodie Solutions. I'm wearing a black hoodie and my Nigerian lover is black and she's got a hoodie too – kind of a girl one – and the other fella's got one too. So that's Black Hoodie. And the Solutions bit – it just sounds cool. So, there you go – Black Hoodie Solutions. Ms They-Don't-Know writes it down, and the bell goes.
Next thing you know, we're robbing shops.
And it's cool; business is brisk. The manager of the Spar near the school is a bit freaked when we bring back the stuff we've just stolen, but she's quite impressed when she sees the CCTV footage of her security muppet walking after Ms Nigeria's arse – true – while I'm right behind him, the hoodie off, taking four packs of microwave popcorn and an NME. She even pays us a tenner and a Cornetto, each – the Cornettos, not the tenner.
But we're happy; we're ahead. A whole tenner, no overheads – the Irish economy doesn't know what hit it.
We stay local at first; the Londis, the chemist's, Fat Larry's Pet Shop – not his real name but he is fat. We rob a tortoise and two rabbits out of Fat Larry's, and we bring them back. It's a bit tricky, this one, because Fat Larry is his own security man, so we're more or less accusing him of racism and sexism, and very stupid-ism. But he takes it on the chins and hands over our consultancy fee, in 20c pieces, and tells us we can keep the tortoise. He insists on it. His words still ring in my ears —Yis can shove it up your arses.
So there you go. By the end of week one we're laughing, as my da always says – although I've never heard him laugh. Except that one time when my ma caught her fingers in the toaster – he laughed a bit then.
Anyway. Ms Nigeria hands our weekly report to Ms They-Don't-Know-I-Was-Locked-Yet-Again-Last-Night. Three pages, a black folder, logo and all. Not-Superman in the wheelchair does the logo for us, on his computer. It's cool – hoodie shape, arms out, hood up. But how come people in wheelchairs are always brilliant on computers? What's the story there? And what were they good at before there were any computers?
Anyway. Ms They-Don't-Know is impressed, but a bit suspicious.
She looks at me.
—So, she said. —What's next?
—Well, says Ms Nigeria. —We're taking it to a new level.
—Yes, I agree.
—Oh shite, says not-Superman's brother.
And that's where you meet us, back where I started, robbing the bigger places in town: him in his brother's wheelchair, doing the larceny bit, while me and Ms Nigeria drag the muppets up and down the escalators, through all the bras and plasma screens.
Shop One is a sweetshop, on Henry Street. All goes to plan. But we're so impressed with the goods that not-Superman's brother manages to smuggle out that we decide to eat them. It's strictly a once-off decision, and good for morale. Then we drop not-Superman off at McDonald's and head off for Shop Two, also on Henry Street. We take turns in the wheelchair till we reach our target. It's a large department store, much loved by Dublin's mammies; and, again, all goes to plan. We leave the premises, by different exits. We reconvene, give not-Superman back his wheelbarrow. And we re-enter, to hand back the goods and negotiate our consultancy fee.
We ask Svetlana at the information desk for the manager. And, while we wait, we smile and – yeah – we giggle. And I'm really close to grabbing Ms Nigeria's hand and asking her to go with me, when another hand grabs my shoulder and I nearly wet myself. I think I yelp or something – I'm not sure.
There are four hands, one for each of us.
Four big hands. They belong to three big men and a huge woman. They're all in Garda uniforms, so it's a fair bet they're Guards.
I yelp again – or something.
—Mind if we look in the bag, lads? says one of the Feds. It might even be my one; I feel his breath on my neck.
The bag is on not-Superman's lap.
—Eh, he says. —No.
But they're already gawking into the bag – it's my schoolbag, actually; my prints are all over it.
A big hand goes in, and takes out (1) a pair of shin-guards; (2) a red high-heel shoe, and (3) a Holy Communion dress.
—You took them from this shop, didn't you? says the lady Garda.
—No, says Ms Nigeria. —Actually, we didn't. We're still in the shop.
And we can tell; it's on their big faces – she's caught them rapid.
But they still drag us down to Pearse Street Station.
4
Have you ever seen a guy in a wheelchair wearing handcuffs? With his hands behind his back? I mean, they could lock him to the side of the chair; he's not going anywhere. But, no, they cuff him the same way they cuff the rest of us, hands behind the back. Maybe they have to – they can't discriminate against him, or something. I don't know.
Anyway. It takes them for ever to get him into the back of the van.
—I didn't do anything, he says.
—None of us did anything, says Ms Nigeria.
She's right. If he's innocent, that means the rest of us have to be guilty. He's ratting on us, before he's even in the van. He should keep his mouth shut and be a man – like me.
If I speak, I'll start crying. But no one else knows that. My lips are sealed. My eyes are – whatever. I look across at Ms Nigeria. I smile. She smiles back. I'll ask her to go with me when we get to the station.
Not-Superman is in the van. There's even a special seat belt for his chair. They must arrest the wheelchair people a lot more often than I'd have expected.
We're on our way down Henry Street, at 7k.p.h. It isn't nice. Sitting like that, like, with a seat belt, with your hands behind your back – it's kind of horrible. The cuffs are digging into me. And I want to go to the toilet. And I'm scared. Two huge words keep going on and off in my head. OH SHIT, OH SHIT, OH SHIT.
But I smile across at Ms Nigeria.
—Alright?
—Perfectly alright.
But she's not perfectly alright. I think I know her well enough by now. She's planking too.
But you should see the state of not-Superman's brother. He's mumbling in a language that isn't English, and I don't think it's Irish. I sit beside him in French, and it's not that one either. I stop looking at him. I'm afraid his head will start spinning, like your woman in The Exorcist. I wish I'd never seen it. OH SHIT, OH SHIT.
I smile at Ms Nigeria. She smiles back. She even laughs.
—Mad, I say.
—Yes, she says back. —Preposterous.
Then we get to the station. And it stops being funny. OH SHIT, OH SHIT, OH SHIT. There's one of those smells, like, and a lot of noise and a guy going mad somewhere in the back – in a cell. And I keep thinking that I'll be going in there with him soon, and the handcuffs really hurt, and it's getting harder not to shake.
They leave us all in a corner.
—Don't budge, says my Garda.
—No, I say before I can stop myself.
He's a bollix.
My chair is kind of broken. I have to lean over on one side to stop it from collapsing. It must look like I'm going to be sick or something.
—They've no case, says Ms Nigeria.
—No, I agree.
—We actually took nothing, she says.
I'm with her all the way. And I let her know it.
—Yeah.
—The sweets, says not-Superman's brother.
He's trying to wipe one of his eyes with his shoulder.
—What?
—We took the sweets, he says.
—We ate them, says his brother.
OH SHIT, OH SHIT. I can suddenly taste them. They were alright – not really as nice as cheap sweets, if you follow me. But, anyway, they're back in my mouth – the taste just, not the actual sweets. I don't want to breathe. And I'm not the only one. We're all afraid the Guards will smell the theft on our breath.
A new one, not in a uniform, but he's definitely a Garda – there's something about the shape of his head. Anyway, he's there. And he's hard. And he points. At me.
—You. Up.
I stand.
—No, he says. —You.
He points at not-Superman's little brother.
—Me?
—Up. Over here.
—Don't say anything, Ms Nigeria whispers.
—You, says the new Garda.
He's pointing at Ms Nigeria.
—Shut your sub-Saharan mouth.
—Excuse me? she says; but it's not really a question.
He stares at her.
—You can't say that, she says.
He still stares at her – at us – at her. He opens a door behind him without looking at it.
—In.
But he stands right in front of the door. Not-Superman's brother has to squeeze past him. He follows him in.
The door shuts. I wait for the screams – I do. OH SHIT, OH SHIT.
—He can't say that, says Ms Nigeria.
My Garda is back. I'm kind of glad to see him.
—Right, lads, he says. —Names, addresses, the parents' mobile numbers.
He stands in front of Ms Nigeria.
—The jungle drums in your case, love.
I told you already, it stops being funny.
5
I just want to talk. I mean, I don't. But I can't help it. The cop asks for my name and address. The brainy dude in my head, who always knows what I should say and do, but after – d'you know what I mean? Anyway, he's telling me to keep my mouth shut, ask for a lawyer – the stuff you see on the telly, like. But I give the cop my name and address, and my mobile, and my da's mobile, and his job, and my granny's trousers size – and everything. I can't help it. I want him to like me, and I don't – he's a racist bollix. But I'm really scared. And – did I say this already? – I can't help it.
I look at Ms Nigeria, and I don't think I'll be asking her to go with me. Not just yet. She's angry – you should see her eyes. But she's calm. It's amazing. She's a girl – she's the girl, like, the only one in this part of the cop-shop. But she's the only one not blabbing or crying, or both. She stares at the cop. He's not even looking at her but he feels it. Like, the rays from her eyes. They burn the arse hair off him, or something.
He looks at her.
—What?
—You have no right to speak like that, she says.
—Like what? he says.
It's like, for a second, she's the cop. But then it changes. He catches up with her – that's what it looks like. He stands up real straight, so he's looking down at her and all of us.