Terry’s got the paper open in front of him
on the kitchen table
and he’s jabbing at some article
with his finger,
prodding a picture of
a slightly scruffy bloke
like he might actually be able to hurt
him a bit
by attacking the newspaper.
‘They’re only here five minutes
and the council’s putting them in houses
down Lordship Lane.
It’s disgusting.
Taxpayers’ money
putting up scroungers
who’d pimp out their
own kids for a pound.’
I want to roll my eyes
and make Terry
tell me exactly where these foreigners
are living.
Because I’ve seen the estate where
Nicu lives and it’s worse than
this one –
windows covered in
bed sheets,
gangs of kids everywhere
and loads of people with dogs on chains –
a total hellhole.
I say,
‘Yeah, it’s terrible, Terry.’
‘Are you taking the mick?’ he says.
‘No,’ I say
quickly.
‘No, I mean it, it’s terrible.
Loads of foreign kids at school too.’
‘Well, I hope you don’t make it easy for them,’ he says.
I shake my head.
‘Nah, I don’t make it easy,’ I say,
thinking of Nicu.
And actually,
this isn’t even a lie.