Ian Sansom - The Delegates' Choice aka The Book Stops Here

'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.