Ian Sansom - The Delegates’ Choice

‘It’s just a—’

‘Saying, right, fine. Whatever. We need to get going here. Do you want me to load your bags in the van? You’re all packed?’

‘No.’

‘No, you don’t want me to load your bags, or no, you’re not packed?’

‘I’m not packed.’

‘What do you mean you’re not packed? We’ve only got a couple of hours before the ship sails.’

‘I’m not coming.’

‘What?’

‘I’m not coming.’

‘What do you mean, you’re not coming? Of course you’re coming.’

‘I’m not. Coming.’

‘All right, yeah, stop muckin’ about now, Ted. We’ve got to go.’

‘I’m not coming.’

‘But we’ve a bet on.’

‘I’ve changed my mind.’

‘You said you couldn’t change your mind once you’d made a bet.’

‘I’ve changed my mind.’

Well, no.

On this occasion Israel could not afford to have Ted change his mind. He had already had just about enough of Northern Irish intransigence, and stubbornness and self-righteous inconsistency for the past eight months, and now he was pumped and ready to go, and Ted was holding him back.

So, no. No, no, no.

‘No,’ he said, using his considerable weight to push against the door. ‘No. That’s it. I’m not having this, Ted.’

Israel stood staring up at Ted’s scowl, wedged between the door and some old green cans containing peat. ‘You’ve mucked me about with this enough already,’ he said. ‘I’m getting on that boat to England this evening whether you like it or not.’

He was trying to squeeze into the bungalow. Muhammad was going crazy. Israel was a bona fide intruder.

‘Aye, right, you go on ahead, son,’ said Ted, pushing Israel back out of the door, with little effort. ‘Because I’m not going. You.’ Shove. ‘Can.’ Shove. ‘Go.’ Shove. ‘Yerself.’

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