The Delegates' Choice aka The Book Stops Here

10

Israel was glad that he'd managed to persuade his mother not to join him and Ted for lunch at the Prince Albert.

The Prince Albert was not a gastropub.

The Prince Albert sits on the corner of Georgiana Street and Royal College Street, in Camden, London, NW1, a big wedgy-shaped red-brick and terracotta building. It reminded Israel of the Flatiron Building in New York. Israel absolutely loved the Flatiron Building; to Israel, the Flatiron Building represented Manhattan itself, which in turn represented the good life, the cosmopolitan, the sophisticated, and everything that Israel aspired to-intelligence, wit, repartee, and profound, geeky men in suits and sneakers, and complicated, elegant women in sunglasses, and evenings out with high-end friends in hip new neighbourhood cafés discussing the latest intellectual fashions and comparing stock portfolios. To Israel, the Flatiron Building represented a way of life.

Unfortunately, it wasn't his way of life. (Israel had never ever been to the Flatiron Building: he'd seen it in Spider-Man films. The Flatiron Building, like Grand Central Station, and the Empire State Building, and the Statue of Liberty, and the whole of the rest of New York, and Boston, and San Francisco, and all America, indeed, as well as most of continental Europe, and Asia, and Africa, and Australia, and Antarctica, existed only in Israel's mind, where they had all come to resemble one another: cities, plains and mountains fabulously, exotically and glamorously there, a world of undiscovered and unreachable El Dorados compared to Finchley's and Tumdrum's unavoidable and everyday here. Israel had travelled widely in his imagination, and gone absolutely nowhere; he was imprisoned by limitless horizons. Just the thought of travel gave him a headache.)

And inside, of course, inside, the Prince Albert was nothing like the Flatiron Building. Inside, comparisons to Manhattans both real and imagined quickly evaporated. Inside, the Prince Albert was a typical stinking London Irish boozer: dirty, depressing, dull and completely empty, except for one lone drinker who wore a porkpie hat and dirty boots and a ravaged-looking suit, and who didn't look up as Israel and Ted approached the bar.

'Gastropub!' said Israel. 'God!'

'Language,' said Ted.

'Sorry,' said Israel. 'But I mean…Couldn't they at least give the place an occasional sluicing out?'

There was music playing, a tinny radio-cassette player behind the bar, its shiny silver plastic rubbed black and white with age, the sound of a female singer sighing and deep-breathing and claiming that she wanted to be a slave to your rhythm, over ululations and ecstatic drumming, and a bass line that sounded like it was being played on very tight knicker elastic. In a too-small alcove off the bar there was an old, frayed and chipped pool table, with a big dark stain on the baize that looked as though someone might once have given birth on it. The table was wedged in with just a few feet to spare all round-London Irish pool players having notoriously short arms-and it was flanked and shadowed by big faded, framed posters on the walls all around it, showing the Mountains of Mourne sweeping down to the sea, and County Kerry, and Cork, and a framed jigsaw of the Giant's Causeway, which made it look as though the basalt rocks had been machine-cut and pieced together on a Sunday afternoon by bored children and their maiden aunts.

Above the bar a chain of pathetic, dirty nylon Irish tricolours hung down like leprechauns' washing, a set of rainbow flags hanging even more pathetically below them, and behind the optics, tacked to dirty mirrors, there were nicotine-stained, crumpled, damp cartoon pictures of the Great Irish Writers: James Joyce, and Samuel Beckett, and Seamus Heaney and W. B. Yeats, and also, incongruously, ABBA and Barbra Streisand, all crowded together and looking as though someone had pissed all over them. Brown paper peeled from the walls and yellow paper hung down from the ceiling. The floor's grey lino was cracked and turning black with age, and the paintwork on the doors and windows was worn almost through to the wood. You could hardly say that the Prince Albert was a bar in decline; the Prince Albert had already declined; it had long since stooped, and slipped, and was starting to go under.

Israel texted Gloria.

No reply.

'Tricolours!' murmured Ted, 'bloody tricolours!' while he ordered drinks from the barman, who was not blessed with English as a first language, but who coped manfully, square-jawed with it as perhaps his fourth or fifth, and who could certainly manage any instructions that included the word 'Guinness', if spoken loudly. He fared less well with Ted's asking if his cousin Michael was in working that day, and if not, where they might possibly find him. After a few minutes of complex misunderstandings-involving the barman talking about his cousins, who were somewhere back home in Silesia, apparently-the barman disappeared behind a beaded curtain. He came back a few moments later.

'Name?' he said.

'My name?' said Ted.

'Yes.'

'Ted,' said Ted.

'Sorry. Again?'

'Ted,' said Ted. 'T. E. D. Carson. C. A. R. S. O. N.'

'Okay. One minute please.'

'Foreigners!' said Ted, as the barman disappeared back behind the beaded curtain.

'You're a foreigner here, remember,' said Israel.

'I don't think so,' said Ted.

'Yes, you are,' said Israel.

'Aye,' said Ted. 'The United Kingdom? United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland? Ever heard of it?'

Israel harrumphed and tutted-did Ted never get tired of being a relic?-and as he tutted, almost as a kind of tut echo, there was a sound as of a large object, a man, or a side of beef, or a beer barrel perhaps, being rocked slowly down a stairway, and then suddenly the barman re-emerged from behind the beaded curtain, with an old man following him.

The old man walked stiffly, loudly, with a crutch-like a beer barrel or a side of beef being rocked slowly down a stairway-and he had worn, patchy white hair and an unshaven, furry sort of puce-coloured face, as though someone had just rolled a little baby pig's head around in pinhead oatmeal. He wore tight grey nylon slacks and a too-large tomato-red shirt with pure white cuffs and collar, a shirt of a kind that Israel had only ever heard rumours of; the kind of shirt that now existed only in retro TV dramas. He also wore a black-and-white polka-dotted silk scarf. And then there was the jewellery, lots and lots of jewellery: rings, bracelets, a big chunky gold necklace and a huge watch of the kind that looked like you could fly to the moon with it and still not have exhausted all its unique features. The old man may have had a head like a pig and may have struggled to walk farther than a couple of hundred yards, but he was utterly, utterly blingtastic.

'Ladies and gentleman!' he boomed, the old pig-and-mealy-faced man, 'IN THE RED CORNER, TED CARSON!' He then dropped his shoulders slightly and bobbed unsteadily, like a boxer on a crutch, before reaching forward across the bar to shake Ted's hand, with his thick, beringed and trottery fingers.

'Michael?' said Ted. 'It's yerself?'

'I fecking hope so!' said Michael, patting his chest. 'Certainly the last time I checked it was! But for feck's sake! Ted Carson! Jesus!'

'Michael!' said Ted, shaking his head in wonderment. 'Ach, Michael! What about yerself?'

'Doin' bravely, Ted. Doin' bravely. Can't complain.'

'Good,' said Ted. 'That's good.'

'Because you know if ye did-' began Michael.

'No one would listen to ye anyway!' said Ted.

They thought this was hilarious, Ted and Michael. They both creased up at this, laughing like they were boys who'd let off a stink bomb, or slipped a whoopee cushion onto the headmaster's seat. Israel had never seen Ted laugh like that before; it was uninhibited laughter. Israel hadn't laughed like that in a long time.

'Boys-a-boys,' said Michael, coming out from round behind the bar on his crutch. 'Look at ye now. I haven't seen ye in, what, ten? Twenty?'

'Forty,' said Ted.

'Forty years?'

'Forty years,' agreed Ted.

'Forty years,' said Israel, joining in.

'Ach, Israel, quiet,' said Ted.

'Seems like yesterday we were wee lads,' said Michael. 'Out in the fields.'

'Aye,' agreed Ted.

'Y'member yer mother'd have the sandwiches set out ready for us when were in?'

'Aye. Thick as the duck-house door.'

'Happy days,' said Michael. 'Wonderful woman, yer mother, Ted.'

'Aye,' said Ted quietly.

'But now, come on, Ted, we're being awful rude here. Introduce me. Who's yer young friend then?'

'Who?'

'The wee pup here.' Michael gestured at Israel with his crutch.

'Him? He's Israel.'

'How ye doin', sir?' said Michael, bracelets jangling, shaking Israel's hand. 'Pleased to meet you.'

'Nice to meet you too,' said Israel.

'Israel?' said Michael, rubbing his wide, white-stubbled chin. 'Israel. Now, tell me the truth, young man, and I'll tell you no lie, would you be of the Hebrew persuasion?'

'Erm. Yes, I suppose, I-'

'Well, well,' said Michael. 'Isn't that a coincidence. Some of my best friends are Jewish.'

'Right,' said Israel.

'Did I ever tell you the story of the rabbi and the priest?'

'No,' said Israel hesitantly. He'd never met Michael before, so exactly how he might have told him the story before…

'All right,' said Michael, leaning across towards Israel. 'Come here.' Israel stepped reluctantly a little closer. He'd never really warmed to men who wore chunky gold jewellery. Michael grabbed hold of his elbow. 'So,' he said, breathing cigarette fumes over Israel. 'There's a rabbi and a priest, and the priest says to the rabbi, "Tell me, you're not allowed to eat bacon. Is that right?" And the rabbi says, "Yes, that's right."' Michael looked at Israel for confirmation of this fact of Jewish dietary law; Israel smiled weakly.

'Anyway, "Just between ourselves," says the priest, "just out of interest, have you ever tried it?" Well, "I must admit," says the rabbi, "many years ago, I did taste bacon." "It's pretty good, isn't it?" says the priest. And, "Yes," says the rabbi, "I have to agree, it's pretty good."'

Israel continued to smile uncertainly.

'"But tell me," says the rabbi-now listen,' said Michael to Israel, '"priests are not allowed to have sex, is that right?"'

Israel grimaced slightly.

'"Yes, that's right," agrees the priest. "We're not allowed to have sex." They're celibate, right, Catholic priests?' said Michael.

'Yes,' said Israel.

'So, "Between ourselves," says the rabbi, "have you ever tried it?" Sex? Right? "No," says the priest, "I must admit, I have never tried it." Never had sex. "Not even once?" asks the rabbi. "No," says the priest, "I've not had sex even once." Now listen,' said Michael, drawing Israel closer, 'this is the punch line. "That's a shame," says the rabbi, "because it's a hell of a lot better than bacon!"'

'Right,' said Israel.

'Sex, you see!' said Michael, 'better than bacon!'

Ted was roaring with laughter.

'Ah, that's a good one,' he said, wiping his eyes.

'It's the way I tell 'em!' said Michael, which sent Ted into further paroxysms of laughter.

'That's it?' said Israel. 'That's the end of the joke?'

'It's the way he tells them!' said Ted.

'Clearly,' said Israel.

'Come on, fellas,' said Michael, 'enough joking around. Come and have a seat here. Come on, come on. Look. I've reserved the best table in the house.'

Michael ushered them over to a table, a table that hadn't had a wipe in some time-years, possibly. The surface was tacky and crusty, as though covered in a thick film of mucus. Israel thought about putting his mobile down on the table, and then thought better of it. He checked again to see if he'd missed any messages. Nothing.

'You're getting drinks now, are ye?' said Michael.

'Aye,' said Ted. 'Guinness.'

The barman looked up and across at the word 'Guinness' and nodded.

'So, you all right?' said Ted.

'Not so bad,' said Michael. 'Few troubles with the old leg, but.' And he slapped his leg.

'Aye,' said Ted. 'What's that all about then?'

'Bone cancer,' said Michael. 'It was me or the leg, they said, so that was it, away.'

'What!' said Ted.

'The leg,' repeated Michael. 'Got the chop.'

'Almighty God!' said Ted. 'That's awful, sure. You mean you've only got the one…'

'Aye,' said Michael.

'Well. I'm…sorry for your loss,' said Ted.

'Ah!' said Michael. 'That's very good. "Sorry for your loss!" I like that. God, it's good to speak to someone from back home. The English, ye know…' He smiled a dirty-toothed smile at Israel. 'No sense of fucking humour. Present company excepted.'

'When did ye? Ye know? Lose the…' said Ted.

'That'd be, what? A year ago?' said Michael.

'And ye've the all-clear now, like, from the cancer?'

'Touch wood,' said Michael. 'Touch wood.' He slapped his leg. It gave a dull thud.

'It's a wooden leg?' said Ted.

'Ach, no!' said Michael. 'Wooden leg, Ted! Ye've got to get with it. This is the twenty-first century. I'm not a feckin' pirate, am I? Eh?'

'Ooh-aar, shipmates,' said Israel.

'Shut up, Israel,' said Ted.

'It's plastic,' said Michael. 'Ye can feel it if you want.'

'I'll not, thanks, Michael, no,' said Ted.

'Ye want to feel it?' said Michael, laughing, addressing Israel.

'No, thanks…'

'Me leg, I mean. She'll not bite,' said Michael.

'No, I'll skip on the…Thanks, anyway.'

At which point, thankfully, the barman came and set drinks down before them, three pints.

'Now that's a pint of Guinness,' said Ted, admiring the pint, as though it were Athena in the Parthenon.

'Aye,' said Michael. 'Ye could trot a mouse across her.' Michael demonstrated this possibility, by walking his fingers daintily across the top of his pint. 'It's the training. See yer man there now?' He gestured towards the barman while he licked the froth from his fingers. 'Months, it took me to get him to do what I wanted. Honest to God, Ted. Months.'

'Where's he from?' said Israel.

'Poland,' said Michael. 'Boleslaw.'

'Whatterslaw?'

'Like coleslaw,' said Michael.

'That his name, or where he's from?' said Ted.

'That's his name,' said Michael. 'Studying for a…what do you call it?'

'Don't know,' said Ted.

'One of those…'

'An exam?' said Israel. 'English as a foreign language? TEFL?'

'PhD,' said Michael. He shouted across to Boleslaw. 'Boles? Hey! What is it you're studying at?'

'Sublinear algorithms?' said Boleslaw, grinning behind the bar. 'King's College.'

'Right,' said Israel.

'Immigrants,' said Ted, stroking his pint glass as though it were a Jack Russell terrier. 'Pulls a good pint, mind. What, ye share the shifts, do ye?'

'What!' said Michael. 'Share shifts! Not at all. I'm not a barman anymore, Ted.'

'Are ye not?'

'Not at all. Jesus! Did ye not know? I though ye knew? I bought the place off the auld fella that owned it back in '73, when he was away over to America.'

'I didn't know that,' said Ted.

'Aye. I'm what they call an owner slash manager,' said Michael, prodding a finger at himself. 'Have been for years.'

'Well…' said Ted thoughtfully. 'Ye're the boss class now then?'

'Indeed!' said Michael, raising his glass. 'And who's not for us is a Guinness!' he said.

'Cheers,' said Ted.

'Sláinte,' said Michael.

'Sláinte!' said Ted, laughing. 'Sláinte! Ach, that's a good one, Michael.' He sipped his pint. 'Ye've done all right for yerself then?'

'Aye. True enough. Ye remember, I came over and I hadn't a fluke.'

'Aye.'

'But look at me now.' He gestured round the bar.

'Aye,' said Ted doubtfully.

Israel noted a group of small plastic model leprechauns posed with fiddles around a plastic crock of gold behind the bar, their green waistcoats rotting onto their chubby little plastic bodies.

'Retiring soon, though,' said Michael.

'Never?' said Ted.

'Absofuckinglutely. You know what it's like. You get to this age, ye want to get in some golf.'

'Golf?' said Ted.

'Aye. So, I'm selling up.'

'Ye'll get a few pounds for this place then?' said Ted.

'Ha!' Michael laughed and slurped at his pint like a hungry dog. 'The price of the places these days, Ted, if I told you, you wouldn't believe me. Honestly. Godsamount of money.'

'Really?'

'I've been beating them off with a big stick, sure. London property prices, you could name a figure almost.'

'No?'

'Of course.' Michael set down his pint glass and leaned in close over the table to speak more quietly. 'I bought this place in 1973, with the money I'd saved from working on the roads, ye know, and a loan from the bank.' He took another sip of his pint. 'Four thousand pounds I bought the place for. Four thousand pounds.' He shook his head in disbelief. 'Ye'll not believe me when I tell ye how much it's on the market for now.'

'How much?'

'Have a wee guess.'

'I don't know. I'm not good on the auld property prices.'

'Have a guess though,' said Michael. 'Bear in mind the London property prices.'

'London? Property prices? They've gone up rightly. I don't know. A hundred thousand?'

Michael smiled into his Guinness.

'Come on, Ted, ye couldn't even get yerself a wee one-bedroom flat in London now for a hundred thousand.'

'Would ye not?'

'Not at all,' said Michael.

'I don't know then,' said Ted. 'A couple of hundred thousand?'

'Ted! Come on!'

'No, you'll have to tell me.'

'Two and a half,' said Michael.

'Aye?' said Ted. 'Two and a half what?'

'What do ye think?' said Michael. 'Two and a half million!'

Both Ted and Israel spluttered-actually spluttered, spraying Guinness down and out and across the crusty tabletop.

'How much?' said Ted.

'Two and a half million of yer English pounds, Ted. That's how much she's worth.' Michael leaned far back in his seat. Israel gazed up at the yellowy ceiling with its architraves. The cracked, frosted, filthy windows. The peeling floor, the splitting vinyl banquettes.

'Holy God,' said Ted.

'Unbelievable, eh? Ye should have come over with me when you had the chance back then, Ted.'

There was a long silence, during which Michael licked his lips and Ted looked mournfully down at his pint.

'The road not travelled?' said Israel.

'Shut up,' said Ted.

'Two and a half million,' repeated Michael.

'Are you sure?' said Ted.

'Of course I'm feckin' sure,' said Michael.

'Two and half million,' said Israel. 'That's a lot of money. What are you going to do with two and a half million?'

'I'm buying a wee bit of land up in Antrim,' said Michael.

'A wee bit?' said Israel.

'Aye. Round Bushmills. Here.' Michael fished into his pocket and produced a wallet and a folded-up photograph showing what appeared to be a huge half-constructed hacienda in Spain, or Mexico, the sort of tasteless rural-bourgeois palace inhabited by some land-owning enemy of Zorro.

'That's a quare lump of house,' said Ted.

'Aye. Well, I want to keep myself in the manner to which I've become accustomed,' said Michael.

'Fair play to ye, Michael,' said Ted, raising his pint glass. 'Ye must have missed it sorely but, all these years away? The auld home country, like?'

'Ach, not really, Ted, to be honest with ye. A nice sliced pan maybe.'

'A what?' said Israel.

'A nice loaf,' said Michael, 'or a nice soda farl.'

'Aye,' said Ted.

'That's it?' said Israel. 'That's all you missed? The bread?'

'You're always going on about the bagels and croissants,' said Ted.

'Well, that's different,' said Israel. 'It's-'

'Apart from that, Ted,' said Michael, 'no, I haven't missed it. First couple of years mebbe. But hardly given the place a second thought since. Not till I thought of retiring, like. Nothing much changed, I'll bet, has it?'

'Well, ye know,' said Ted.

'First and Last still there?'

'Aye,' said Ted.

'What was yer man's name? The owner?'

'Elder? Elder Agnew.'

'That's him. He still there?'

'Ach, no, not any more. He passed on. The son's the business now.'

'And how's the Guinness?'

'Ach. You'd read a paper through it to be honest, Michael.'

As Ted and Michael solemnly finished their pints the barman, with an uncanny sense of timing, appeared with three more pints. Israel had barely started on his first.

'There's you,' said Michael.

'Cheers,' said Ted. 'I'll tell you what, Michael, I'd take a sandwich and all, if it's not too much trouble, just to chase down the Guinness, like.'

'Me too,' agreed Israel.

'You'll start a run on the sandwiches,' said Michael, winking. 'The missis won't be pleased.'

'You married then, Michael?' said Ted.

'Ach, Ted!' said Michael. 'Confirmed bachelor. Yerself?'

'Aye, the same,' said Ted.

'Well,' said Michael. 'That's what I thought! Boles! We'll take some sandwiches here please?'

The barman nodded, and disappeared behind the beaded curtain.

'Anyway,' said Michael. 'That's enough about me, Ted. What about yerself?'

Ted was silent. It can be difficult following up someone's good news with no news of your own.

'Ye keepin' all right, though?'

'Aye,' said Ted.

'Ye're not still boxing?' said Michael.

'Ach, no,' said Ted. 'Look at me.' He patted his considerable stomach. 'I gave that all up years ago.'

'Shame. Shame,' said Michael. 'I'll tell ye what though, Ted, look at ye here then.' He pointed above their heads with his crutch. 'These'll take you back.'

Ted and Israel swivelled round in their greasy, worn, tub-bottomed seats. The wall above them was filled with photos of boxers, black-and-white photos, mostly, of thick-set, flat-nosed men in long shorts, and bare-chested, all standing slightly sideways, shyly almost, up on the balls of their feet, in lace-up boots, gloved fists held aloft, elbows in, as though protecting themselves from the camera. Ted stood gazing up at them all, cradling his pint.

'Ach, Michael.'

'Rogues gallery, eh?' said Michael.

'Who's that now?' said Ted, pointing up at a photo. 'Is that wee Jim McCann?'

'That it is,' said Michael.

'Ach, wee Jimmy. Whatever happened to him?'

'God only knows, Ted,' said Michael. 'Long time ago.'

'Ach, seems like yesterday,' said Ted. 'God bless him.'

'Aye. Paddy Maguire,' said Michael, pointing at another photo. 'The great Belfast bantamweights. Hughie Russell. Davy Larmour.'

At that point, Israel successfully zoned out of the conversation-all he could hear were names that meant nothing to him, like the declension of foreign nouns, or the lists in Leviticus, or the place names in an Irish poem: Fra McCullagh, and Bunty Doran, and Kelly, and Rooney, and Cowan-and he stared down at his pint, as though he might be able to divine the secrets of the universe therein; as though the deep dark depths of Guinness might be able to reveal to him the meaning of existence, and the exact reason how and why he had washed up here with Ted on yet another wild-goose chase, and where was the bloody mobile library anyway, and why Gloria wasn't answering his calls, and why anyone was interested in boxing, when it's just men trying to knock each other down, because, really, what did that have to do with real life?

'Hey, you!' said Michael, jogging Israel's elbow as he was checking his phone for messages again and almost knocking him out on the table.

'Who? Me?' said Israel. Nothing from Gloria.

'Yes, you, young man. Now who do you think this wee fella is?' Michael pointed to a photo showing a bulky young boxer with a crew cut.

'I have no idea,' said Israel wearily. 'Not a clue.'

'Do you want to guess?' said Michael.

'Not really,' said Israel. 'No.'

'Go on,' said Michael. 'Who do you think that is?'

'I don't know,' said Israel. 'I'm not good on boxers.'

'Go on,' said Michael.

'Muhammad Ali?' said Israel.

'Muhammad Ali!' said Michael. 'You've a quare one here, Ted!'

Ted shook his head, as though contemplating the meaning of utter stupidity.

'Muhammad Ali was a black man, son!' said Michael.

'Oh, yes,' said Israel, attempting to communicate disinterest.

'Think of another one.'

'Erm…'

'That!' said Michael, without waiting for Israel to answer. 'Is! Yer man here!'

'Ted?' said Israel. 'It's you? Really?'

'Aye. He could have been a contender,' said Michael.

'Ach, Michael.'

'He could. He was one hell of a specimen when he was young, let me tell ye. Adonis, so he was.'

'Michael!' said Ted.

'He was a wee bunty one when he was a wean, but.'

'I was that,' said Ted.

'But that was before he got into the sports, like. You were on the same bill as Paddy Graham once, were ye not?'

'I was,' said Ted. 'Fiesta Ballroom. Fighting Sam Kelly.'

'That was a close fight,' said Michael.

'He cut me open like a butcher, so he did,' corrected Ted. 'Referee stopped it in the seventh.'

'You weren't far off,' said Michael.

'Aye, half a yard and a million miles away,' said Ted.

Israel was looking at the photograph showing Ted in regulation boxer's stance. He looked younger, of course, and about half his current body weight, but there was a look in his eyes that Israel recognised, a look that could have been defiance. Or it could have been fear.

The sandwiches-white bread, margarine and ham-and three more pints arrived. Ted and Michael seemed to be engaged in some kind of unspoken but deeply acknowledged drinking competition.

'Sláinte,' said Michael, as was his custom, tucking into the Guinness. Israel saw Ted wince again.

'Now, just…' said Ted, putting up his hand. 'Hold on there now, Michael. You are having me on, are ye?'

'With what?' said Michael. 'Having ye on with what, Ted?'

'With this auld "Sláinte" nonsense.'

'Sláinte?'

'Aye. We don't say "Sláinte", do we.'

'What do ye mean, "we", Ted?'

'In the north, I mean. It's…ye know.'

'Ach, Ted. It's just habit,' said Michael, picking up his pint again. 'I've been here that long.'

'Habit?' said Ted. 'Holy God, man.'

'Keeps the customers happy, you know,' said Michael. 'A touch of the blarney.'

'Aye, right, and the tricolours and all?'

'And leprechauns,' added Israel for good measure, pointing to the rotting plastic figurines gathered behind the bar. 'They're a nice touch.'

'Shut up, Israel,' said Ted. 'Yer father was staunch, but,' he said to Michael.

'I know, Ted, I know, I know.'

Ted shook his head. 'You might have expected to have gone, ye know, a wee bit Englishified over here,' he said. 'That'd be understandable, like. But to have gone…Irish on us…'

'Ach, Ted!'

'I'm just finding it hard to understand, Michael, that's all.'

'Look, Ted, come on. It's a big wide world out there. You know as well as meself, you come over here, ye're just a Mick to people. It doesn't matter whether you're from the north or the south or orange or green or whatever. Ye play along with it a wee bit, ye're fine.'

'Aye, but the tricolours, Michael. The tricolours! The Republican flag, but.'

'Ach, for feck's sake, Ted, people wouldn't know we were an Irish pub otherwise, would they?'

'What about a red hand?' suggested Ted.

'Ach, Ted, wise up. A red hand!'

'Symbol of Ulster,' said Ted.

'You're having me on now, are ye? We're a business here, Ted, we're not into making sectarian-'

'The red hand is not a sectarian symbol!' said Ted. 'Was it not O'Neill who cut off his hand to claim the kingdom of Ulster?'

'I don't know, Ted. I'm not into the history, like. But I tell you what I do know: that you might as well put a swastika on the front of the pub if you're going to put the red hand up.'

'A swastika?' said Israel. 'Erm. Ahem. I'm not sure the red hand of Ulster is quite the same as a swastika-'

'Shut up, Israel,' said Ted.

'You've got to give people what they want, Ted. And a wee touch of the Irish doesn't do any harm. I tell you, we have the auld diddly-aye music in here once a week, and it's a coupla wee fellas from East Belfast. One of them was in a feckin' flute band, for goodness sake!'

'Ach.'

'It's a wee bit of craic, just.'

'Postmodern identities,' said Israel.

'Shut up, Israel,' said Ted.

'Anyway,' said Michael. 'Are ye's here on holiday, or what?'

'Well,' said Israel. 'Actually we were wondering if you could help us?'

'Really?' said Michael. 'And there was me thinking it was a social call!'

'Ach, it is, Michael, I've been meaning to look you up for years, like. It's just, with work, and-'

'Aye, all right, Ted, I'm only keepin' ye going. Now what sort of help was it ye were looking for?'

'We're in a wee spot of bother, Michael,' said Ted.

'Taxman is it?' said Michael, leaning back in his seat. 'Bloody bastards.'

'Ach, no. It's not the taxman. I pay my taxes, and glad to pay them.'

'That's your prerogative, Ted, your prerogative. So what sort of help would it be that you're looking for?'

'We've had our van stolen.'

'Van?'

'Mobile library van,' said Israel.

'Your what?' said Michael.

'We're librarians,' said Israel.

'Is that the word for it then?' said Michael, laughing. 'Librarian! I've not heard that one before.'

'What?' said Ted.

'Librarians!' said Michael. 'Ah, you're an auld old queen, Ted.'

'What?' said Ted.

'You and your young man here. Librarians! Very cute!'

A few of the things Michael had said now suddenly started to make sense in Israel's mind.

'Hold on,' he said. 'You don't think…You're not implying that we're-'

'Young man?' said Michael.

'We're what?' said Ted.

'Shaved head,' said Michael. 'Leather jacket. And your friend the bear here.'

Ted looked to Israel, who looked to Michael.

'Ye do know what sort of bar this is, don't you?' said Michael.

'Aye, an Irish bar,' said Ted.

'Ha!' said Michael. 'We, Ted, are London's premier Irish gay bar.'

'As in?' began Israel.

'Homosexual?' said Michael.

'Homo…Homo?' said Ted.

Michael raised his eyebrows-which, it suddenly occurred to Israel, were plucked eyebrows-and fingered the ends of his black-and-white polka-dotted silk scarf.

Ted's eyes looked as though they might pop out of his head. Israel glanced around again: the rainbow flags with the tricolours. The poster of ABBA. Barbra Streisand.

'Some of my best friends are homosexual,' he said, trying to think of something to say. 'And I really like Alan Hollinghurst. Queer as Folk? Do you remember that? Tales of the City? I've got a girlfriend though, called Gloria…'

'Ted?' said Michael. 'Are you all right?'

Ted looked as though someone had just punched him hard in the stomach. He shook his head. He'd flushed a deep red.

'Ted?'

'I…Michael?…Ye're not…I mean…'

'I thought everybody knew!' said Michael. 'That was the reason I left back in '69.'

'But…I thought it was because of the Troubles,' said Ted.

'Well, there was that too, of course.'

'I…But…'

'You could have come with me, Ted. You could have made a new life for yerself.'

'I…You're not…'

'I think he maybe needs a drink,' said Michael to Israel.

'Right,' said Israel, pushing one of his three as yet undrunk Guinnesses towards Ted. 'He could have one my-'

'Actually, I think a wee drop of the craythur,' said Michael. 'That'd see you right, Ted, wouldn't it? A wee drop of the craythur?'

'I…' said Ted, who was struggling.

'Let's have a wee look here.'

Michael got up and hobbled over to the bar.

'Ted!' whispered Israel.

'What?'

'Snap out of it. Don't be so rude.'

'Ach. I…'

'Get a grip, Ted.'

'I just can't…He's a…'

'It's fine. He's still your cousin.'

'Yes, but a…'

'There are no buts.'

'I wouldn't have come if I'd have known he was…'

'Sshh!'

Michael came back over to the table with a bottle of clear liquid gripped under his armpit, and three glasses.

'Fella from Dagenham gets it over from Cork, so he does.'

'What is that?' asked Israel.

'Poteen,' said Michael.

'Isn't that illegal?' said Israel.

'Ha!' said Michael, uncorking the bottle, and offering the bottle to Ted and Israel to smell. 'Where'd ye get him, Ted, eh?'

'I…' said Ted.

'Smell all right?' said Michael.

'Aye,' said Ted.

'It is illegal, isn't it?' said Israel.

Michael called over to the man in the suit and hat drinking by himself.

'He says the poteen, Hugh, is it illegal?'

'As far as I know.'

'Hughie says it's definitely illegal.'

'He's your poteen expert then, is he?' said Israel jokingly.

'Aye,' said Michael. 'You could say that. He's…Hold on, what's your official title, Hugh?'

'DCI.'

'The police?' said Israel.

'There you are now,' said Michael. 'You're not going to take us in for the poteen are ye, Hugh?'

'What day of the week is it?' said Hugh.

'It's a Wednesday,' said Michael.

'You're all right, then, Michael. I'll turn a blind eye. But mind you've it drunk by tomorrow.'

'There we are now,' said Michael. 'So, a wee drop of the craythur?'

'No, I don't think so,' said Israel. 'Not for me, thanks.'

'Ye big drink a water. Come on now and have a wee try.'

Michael poured three generous measures of colourless liquid into the glasses.

'Cheers!' he said to Ted.

Ted remained silent and motionless until Israel jogged his arm.

'Ted, cheers!'

'Cheers,' said Ted mournfully, looking down at the table.

Since living in Tumdrum, Israel's taste buds had become accustomed to strong alcoholic beverages. He knocked it back.

'Good, isn't she?' said Michael.

'Not bad,' said Israel, gasping. It tasted like fermented beaver piss. 'You know the policeman there,' he said to Michael. 'Do you think he might be able to pull a few strings and find out who's stolen our van?'

'Hugh?' said Michael, calling over. 'Could you do me a wee favour?'

'Any time,' said Hugh.

'Tracing a stolen van?'

'No problem at all,' said Hugh.

'Thank you, darling,' said Michael. 'There,' he said to Israel and Ted. 'That's you all sorted now, Ted, isn't it?'

'Ach, Michael,' said Ted.

'That went well,' said Israel, when they left.

'We'll never hear any more of it,' said Ted. 'A bunch of homo…' He struggled to say the word.

They got the call the next morning.