The Deportees (14 page)

My girlfriend is Nigerian, kind of, and when we go through the shops, we're followed all the way. We stop – the security guards stop. We go up the escalator – they're three steps behind us, and there's another one waiting at the top. We look at something, say, a shoe, and they all look at us looking at the shoe. And people – ordinary people, like – they see the security guards looking at us, and they stop and start looking at us, in case something good's going to happen. You're never lonely if you're with a black girl, or even if your hoodie is black. There's always someone following you – 'Move along, move along' – making sure you're getting your daily exercise.

I'm not complaining. I'm just stating the facts.

That's the first thing the Guards – the real cops, not the security guards – it's the first thing they learn when they're doing their training down the country. How to say 'Move along' in 168 different languages. Even before they learn how to eat their jumbo rolls without getting butter all over their shirts.

I said she was Nigerian, kind of. I didn't mean she was kind of Nigerian. I meant she's kind of my girlfriend. She's lovely and, I have to admit, I kind of like the attention. No one really noticed me until I started going with her, kind of. Now they all look, and you can see it in their faces; they're thinking,
There's a white fella with a black girl,
or something along those lines. I'm the white fella. It's better than nothing.

I'm dead into her. I'd love it if she was my girlfriend – full time, like. My da says I should just go ahead and ask her. But I don't know. That's what he must have done, a hundred years ago, and he ended up with my ma. So, I'm not sure. What if she says No?

But it's a bit gay at the moment. We're
friends
– do you know what I mean? And that's grand; it's not too bad. But I'd love to, like, hold her a bit and kiss her.

I'm not telling you her name. And that means I can't use my own name either. Because, how many Nigerian girls is the average Irish teenager going to be hanging around with, even here in multicultural, we-love-the-fuckin'-foreigners Dublin? If I give my name, I might as well give hers. So, no.

So, there we are, myself and my Nigerian friend, and we're walking through the shop, being tailed by the Feds. And meanwhile, our friend, who's in a—

And now, there's another problem. There's a fella in a wheelchair in the story. How many male teenagers in the greater Dublin area share their leisure time with young men in wheelchairs and Nigerian women?

Our friend is in a wheelchair, but he doesn't need it. It's his brother's. His brother is in McDonald's, waiting for us. He doesn't have much of a choice, because we have his wheelchair. And he needs it, badly. There's a ginormous milkshake cup in front of him. It's empty. The shake's in him, and he's bursting. He's full of vanilla and the jacks is down the back, miles – sorry, kilometres away.

And his brother has his wheelchair. He's in the same shop as us – that's me and the Nigerian bird. And while the Feds follow me because (a) I'm with a black person, and (b) I'm wearing a hoodie, he's robbing everything he can stretch to, because (a) he's in the wheelchair, and (b) he's wearing glasses. And no one follows him. In fact, everyone wants to help him.

It's an experiment. Market research. I'll explain in a minute.

His brother is sliding towards the jacks when we get back to McDonald's. He's halfway there and, so far, €8.56 has been thrown at him.

Let me explain.

We aren't robbing the stuff because we want it, or just for the buzz. No. We are a mini-company. Three of us are in Transition Year, in school. The brother who actually owns the wheelchair isn't. He's in Sixth Year. We used to call him Superman, but he asked us to stop after Christopher Reeve died; it was upsetting his ma whenever she answered the landline. 'Is Superman there?' So, fair enough; we stopped.

Anyway, as part of our Transition Year programme, me and Ms Nigeria and not-Superman's brother had to form a mini-company, to help us learn about the real world and commerce and that. And we didn't want to do the usual stuff, like making sock hangers and Rice Krispie cakes. So, we sat at a desk and, watched closely by our delightful teacher, Ms They-Don't-Know-I-Was-Locked-Last-Night, we came up with the idea, and the name.

Black Hoodie Solutions.

I'm not all that sure about Transition Year. Like, learning to drive is on the curriculum, and that sounds a lot better than Maths or Religion. But then you find out there's no car. Mr I'm-So-Cool-In-My-Jacket says something about insurance and us being too young, and we end up learning to drive by looking at the blackboard. I'm serious. He draws a circle on the board with a piece of red chalk.

—That now, ladies and gentlemen, is – a – roundabout.

And he shows us how to
negotiate
it, with a piece of white chalk.

So, it's good and it's bad. Sound Recording is cool, and First Aid is good crack. Bedsit Cookery isn't too bad. But Teen Thoughts! It's so bad, so – worse than shite. The teacher, Ms I'm-Not-Really-A-Teacher, sits on top of her desk and says something like, 'Hey, guys. Girls masturbate too. Surprised?' And she expects us to discuss it. I'm not making this up. She just sits there, waiting. 'Anybody?'

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.

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.

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.