Deportees by Roddy Doyle

Author:Roddy Doyle [Doyle, Roddy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General
ISBN: 9781407013435
Google: maquP2jKq2AC
Barnesnoble:
Goodreads: 17425753
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2007-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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.

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