Benny and Omar - Eoin Colfer - E-Book

Benny and Omar E-Book

Eoin Colfer

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Beschreibung

The hilarious debut novel from one of the world's favourite children's authors. Benny Shaw, a young sporting fanatic, is forced to leave his beloved Wexford, home of all his heroes, and move with his family to Tunisia! How will he survive in a place like this? Then he teams up with Omar, and a madcap friendship between the two boys leads to trouble, crazy escapades, a unique way of communicating, and heartbreaking challenges.

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Reviews

Benny, an average Irish schoolboy, has to face being uprooted and re-planted in Tunisia, Africa. Determined to find fault with everything, Benny finally meets his match in local boy Omar. Omar has never learned English, but is a master of telly-speak, and in this unique way the boys manage to communicate. Trouble follows, of course!

‘A big, big recommendation’ GAY BYRNE

‘A wonderful book, absolutely hilarious’ ROBERT DUNBAR

‘There is hardly a page which will not have a reader laughing aloud’ THE IRISH TIMES

For Jackie

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you to May Meyler, Jean Hersrud and June Cottgrove.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The Arabic used in this book is Tunisian street slang and may not conform to standard Arabic spelling or pronunciation.

CONTENTS

Reviews

Title Page

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

1 Where?

2 Hell Week

3 The Edge of the Desert

4 Educational Environment

5 Sticky Bondy Stuff

6 Splitting Internal Organs

7 This Time It’s Personal

8 Fit to Be Tied

9 Corpzublicked

10 Hard Labour

11 Freedom

12 Breakout

13 The Dukes of Hazzard

14 Loose Ends

About the Author

Copyright

Other Books

WHERE?

Benny Shaw was built like a ferret, or so Father Barty liked to tell everybody. Short and skinny with bandy legs you could roll a basketball through. At this moment his brow was wrinkled in concentration.

The two goalposts looked like there was only half an inch between them. And there was a whole shower of grunting, hairy full backs just itching for him to make a mess of the shot. The pressure was well and truly on. Not just any old puck-about: this was the Primary Schools County Hurling Final. Saint Jerome’s of Wexford facing the Christian Brothers’ of Wexford. Deadly serious.

Father Barty Finn was at Benny’s shoulder, muttering advice, a cigarette jiggling in his false teeth. Barty coached each game like he was standing beside Pearse in the GPO. Schoolwork was grand, but hurling was sacred.

‘Take your point, boy,’ hissed Barty.

Sound advice. They were already in injury time. A point would square it. No need to risk losing everything by going for a goal. Buy a replay. Even at that, it was a knacky shot.

A sideline, ten yards out. You’d have to really get under a ball to lift it at this range. Benny could try lobbing it in to one of his team mates, but the marking was tight. Fierce-faced little terriers clashed hips, waiting for the ball to drop in the square in front of the goal.

Benny concentrated on the small leather ball before him. He stooped low and sliced his hurley beneath it. It was a sweet shot. He knew it the instant he hit it. No flat jarring up the handle of the hurley and barely a blade of grass pulled out of the muck.

The sliotar arced high, loaded with backspin, buzzing above the hurley range of the defenders. Benny glared after his shot, sweet-talking it into the square. The players lowered their hurleys. It was out of their control now. The trajectory looked a bit off, but there was a bend on it, dragging the sliotar across the face of the goal. Too late the keeper, who was already eating a victory burger in his head, realised the danger. He whipped up his hurley but the bullet had already gone past.

A goal! St Jerome’s were two points ahead. No way back for the Brothers. The park erupted. Parents danced on the benches. Schoolboys howled derision at the opposite stand. As Father Barty often said: It’s not the winning that matters, it’s beating the other chap.

The Brothers tried a quick puck-off to gain time, but the ref blew it up. All over. Benny pulled off his helmet just in time for Father Barty to tip ash all over his head.

‘Good lad, Shaw,’ he cackled. ‘That’ll learn those chancers.’

Benny wore the medal inside his vest. It knocked against his ribs as he ran home, reminding him of the goal. The kiddies were on the path playing kerbsie. George was there being cute. His favourite trick. Benny scowled. Just the sight of his little brother darkened his mood. Nine was too old for cute. Ma had him this way – Jessica Shaw’s little actor, swathed in designer outfits. George actually cared about clothes. This was incomprehensible to Benny, who rarely arrived home without a few extra holes in his pants.

And George actually liked drama. He thought acting in pageants and plays was important. What was the point in pretending to be someone else when everyone knew who you were anyway? Benny didn’t see the attraction. And pictures? Why would anyone sit inside drawing some old tree when you could be outside climbing up one?

‘Mother’s looking for you,’ his brother shouted at him.

Benny grunted. Imagine calling your Ma Mother. It felt wrong in his mouth, like when you crammed a whole digestive biscuit into your gob and it hit the back of your throat. That was Jessica Shaw – always different. There was the whole name thing, for example. George and Bernard Shaw, after some old fellow who wrote plays. And she always called him Bernard, except when she was annoyed and forgot to stand on ceremony. Then it was ‘Benny’, in tones that would freeze mercury.

The car was by the gate. Da must be home from work. Time for a daily ritual. Benny hopped up on the wall, landing neatly on his own ingrained footprints. There was a side door between the wall and garage, gloss green with a cracked and peeling centre. Benny let fly. The sliotar sped to its target, knocking off a few more paint chips. But the latch held. This one was surviving longer than the others. Possibly Da had rigged it, just to annoy him. Might have to do a bit of midnight screw-driving.

Pat Shaw appeared at the porch. He gave Benny the obligatory glare for whacking the door, but he couldn’t hold it.

‘Well?’ He looked like he was waiting for hospital-test results.

Benny raised his medal by the ribbon.

‘Good man,’ Da said, breaking into a relieved grin. ‘Here, show me that slab of gold.’

The two Shaws came together awkwardly, both grinning like eejits. Pat chanced a hug, throwing an arm around his boy. It was more like a headlock, but Benny got the idea.

‘What score did you get?’

Benny calculated. ‘Two goals, four points.’

‘Out of how much?’

‘Two-eleven.’

Pat nodded. ‘So what happened to the other seven?’

Benny croaked out a laugh. ‘So, how come you’re home?’

His father’s humour faded suddenly. ‘Well, Bernard … that is, Benny … we have to talk. It’s important.’

‘I never touched him.’

‘No, no. God, I wish that was all.’

A voice floated through the hall. ‘Patrick? Is it our eldest?’

‘Let’s show your mother this medal,’ said Pat Shaw, his large hand wrapped fondly around his son’s skull.

Jessica Shaw wore a lot of masks. Two silver ones on a pendant. A couple more on handpainted ceramic earrings, and a gold brooch with four tiny cubic zirconia eyes. She collected them. Apparently the smiley chap and frowning lad represented the yin and yang of the dramatic arts. Benny had made the blunder of asking about that once. Jessica had given him a fifteen-minute lecture contrasting some characters called Falstaff and Ophelia. It was all very educational: Benny learned not to ask any more questions about drama.

Following his dad into the kitchen, Benny lobbed his kit into the black hole underneath the stairs. His mother was seated at the table, a steaming cup of coffee before her. Inevitably, the drama masks were etched into the handcast mug. At least Jessica was easy to shop for. George, the little crawler, managed to work the motif into his art lesson every Friday. They had a shelf full of his creations. Everything from lollipop sticks to saltdough moulded to the shape of Jessica’s favourite symbol.

‘You won your little game,’ gushed his mother. ‘That’s wonderful, darling.’

‘It was the county final, Mam.’

‘What a lovely medal! That’ll give you something to remember.’

Pat Shaw’s gaze dropped to the floor.

Benny didn’t miss it. What did she mean, remember? ‘What’s the story, Da?’

His father put both hands on Jessica’s shoulders. A united front was being presented.

‘Let’s wait until your brother gets here.’

Benny began to get worried. They weren’t a group-conference sort of family. A terrible thought occurred to him.

‘Is Grandad all right?’

‘What? Of course … No, no, Benny – Bernard – it’s nothing like that.’

‘What’s going on then?’

‘Be patient, darling. Here’s Georgie now.’

George traipsed into the room. He was, of course, immaculately dressed. Baggy beige corduroys and a white polo shirt.

All Benny’s shirts were from the supermarket. Sometimes he found it difficult to both sneer at his brother’s clothes and feel envy – at the same time. It took real effort.

‘Ready, darlings?’

George smiled. Benny squinted suspiciously.

‘Father has some wonderful news for you. It concerns us all, as a family.’

‘Lotto?’

‘No, Bernard.’

‘You got that part in Glenroe?’

‘No, Georgie, you darling. Those TV directors have not seen fit to call me, or to return my tape.’ Jessica sniffed delicately.

Pat Shaw took up the narrative. ‘You boys know we’ve been having some cutbacks at work.’

EuroGas had been in the news recently. Some executive salary scandal. People being let go.

‘You’ve got stamps, haven’t you, Da?’

Pat smiled, nervously. ‘No, Benny. It’s not that bad. It’s good really, a wonderful opportunity.’

‘What is?’

‘I’ve been offered a promotion. Shift supervisor. It means moving.’

Benny blanched. ‘Not Kilkenny. Tell me it’s not Kilkenny. I couldn’t play with the Kilkenny Cats.’

‘No, not Kilkenny. A bit further afield.’

Jessica had recovered from the TV snub. ‘It will be wonderful, darlings. A chance to study another culture.’

‘Oh no. It’s Kerry, isn’t it? Sure, they don’t even know how to play hurling there!’

Jessica would have scowled, if that didn’t give you wrinkles. ‘No, Benny … Bernard. This whole ordeal doesn’t revolve around your proximity to a hurling pitch.’

Benny didn’t care about wrinkles. He scowled.

‘My job will be to train in the locals,’ continued Da. ‘Bring them up to speed on our procedure.’ He was looking at the floor again, stalling with semi-relevant information.

‘Where, Da?’

Pat Shaw swallowed. ‘Tunisia.’

The Shaw family stared into the air as though the word was flashing there. Even George was speechless. Tunisia! Where was that? What was it?

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ Mother’s smile would have won her, at the very least, a Bafta.

Even The Crawler was fazed. ‘Is it?’

‘Of course it is, George, darling. The company values your father’s services so much that they’re prepared to move the entire family to Tunisia.’

‘It was either that or redundancy.’

‘Pat! Let’s give it a chance.’

‘Yes. Sorry. You’re right … it seems a really good deal. Everything you could want.’

‘Drama club?’

‘No … I don’t think so, George.’

‘Hurling?’

‘Well, no …’

‘I think it’s best we concentrate on the positive, everybody.’

‘What positive, Ma?’

Jessica winced. ‘Ma? Please, Bernard.’

‘Mam,’ conceded Benny.

Da got his second wind. ‘Sit down, the pair of you.’

George and Benny, puzzled, remained seated.

‘Well, shut up then!’ continued Da, braving Jessica’s disapproving glance. ‘Here’s what’s happening. EuroGas is in a bad way. Stocks are down. British Gas are pulling out of their slump. The domestic office can’t support …’

Pat Shaw noticed his sons’ earnest blankness.

‘Aah … They’re shutting the Wexford office down. So it’s either Tunisia or the dole office.’ That was plain enough.

Benny heard the words. He understood them individually, but they didn’t seem to make any sense as a sentence. Dole? That was for other dads. For people on the news.

‘So, tell us then!’ said Benny.

‘What’s that?’

‘This Tunisia place. Where is it?’

‘Ah … Ah … North Africa.’

The Crawler began to cry. Benny, alarmed, blinked back a few tears himself. Tunisia was one of those obscure little countries on the globe that he’d heard of but couldn’t quite pin down. He’d been thinking maybe Eastern Europe, one of those places that used to be in Russia.

‘Africa, Da?’

‘North Africa. They don’t have lions or elephants or anything.’

‘You mean we’re going to Africa for the whole summer and they don’t even have lions and tigers?’

Pat and Jessica Shaw glanced at each other. George was too busy blubbering to spot it. But Benny missed nothing.

‘It’s not just the summer, is it, Ma … Mam?’

‘No. It’s not.’

George’s tears dried up as though his tap had been turned off. Another benefit of speech-and-drama classes.

‘How long, then?’

Mam took a deep breath and gave them a reassuring smile. ‘Your father’s initial contract is for twelve months.’

‘A year!’ Someone turned the tap back on.

‘A year, Da! In some …’

Benny was working up to a curse. It would be his first in front of his parents. He felt the occasion merited it. But by the time he’d settled on one, his nerve was gone. Jessica rushed to comfort her distraught youngest. Da rubbed his forehead, obsessively flattening the ancestral cowslick.

HELL WEEK

The greatest trauma that had ever been endured by Benny Shaw was to see Wexford, his own county team, return home victorious from the Leinster Final. He couldn’t decide whether he was deliriously happy or about to spontaneously explode. For weeks all thoughts of Tunisia were buried beneath a mountain of hysteria. Wexford might actually make it to the All-Ireland Final, the ultimate!

Pat Shaw, already guilty over the move, was easily manipulated into securing a pair of tickets for the semi-final. So on that historic August bank holiday weekend, father and son sat together in Croke Park. They swilled warm Fanta and chomped bashed Taytos, roaring good-natured abuse at the Offaly opposition from the safety of a purple and gold ocean of Wexford supporters. Both Shaws ended up hugging total strangers when the referee blew the final whistle. They even hugged each other. It was that kind of day. Wexford were in the All-Ireland Hurling Final. It was every Wexfordman’s dream. Pulling his son tight to his chest, Pat Shaw regretted the passing of this summer. His heart took a snapshot, freezing the precious moment forever. Somehow, Benny clambered up along his father’s body, swinging onto his shoulders like a monkey on a branch. Pat Shaw clasped his son’s ankles and added his voice to the crowd: ‘Up Wexford!’

But every silver lining has a cloud. The final would be scheduled for the beginning of September. They left for Tunisia in the middle of August. Maybe the young lad wouldn’t be so eager to hug him then.

Family meeting. Da had picked up that phrase from the Cosby Show or something.

‘Right, boys. Let’s do a recap on our situation. We push off in two days, Saturday, twenty-fourth. Two flights. Dublin– Heathrow. London–Tunis. Then a jeep ride down to Sfax. Any questions?’

‘I’m going to miss the final.’

‘That’s not a question, Benny.’

‘It’s important though.’

‘I understand that, son. We’re all missing it. It’s a sacrifice we have to make for the family.’

‘Oh yeah. Georgie’s real broke up over it.’

Pat Shaw enunciated very clearly. ‘And what about me? I’ve been waiting for this longer than you’ve been alive.’

‘You’re right,’ agreed Benny. ‘It’s unfair to expect you to miss it. We should follow Mam and The Cr … George out.’

‘Benny, you’re not making this easy.’

‘Yeah, well …’

‘We’re all making sacrifices, Bernard,’ added Jessica. ‘I’m missing the opera festival. It’s the cultural event of the year.’

‘Oh, the pain of it.’

Pat and Jessica exchanged a worried glance. Neither parent wanted to bulldoze through Benny’s sarcasm. Developing psyche and all that. Still, there was a limit to the selfishness you could put up with.

‘I’m missing the most important event of my young life,’ continued Benny blithely. ‘And George, there, is missing the chance to dress up like a fairy. What a tragedy for the free world.’

Pat Shaw had had enough. Only his wife’s hand on his knee kept him from lunging at his son. Jessica Shaw decided that the time for niceties was past.

‘Now, you listen to me, Benny,’ she said through a dangerous smile. Benny listened. Mam had called him Benny. Plus, her accent was slipping.

‘How dare you believe your life more important than ours! How dare you put some filthy ball game before the welfare of this family! Do you think any of us want to go to some African hell-hole? Well, do you?’

Benny shook his head. So did Georgie, just in case.

‘Some uncivilised pit, with diseased water and mosquitoes and foreigners. What’s there for me? I’ll be a housewife on a prison camp. The only culture they have belonged to the Romans, for God’s sake. Never trust a country where the most exciting thing that ever happened was an invasion.’

Pat Shaw blinked. This was getting a bit off-topic.

‘But I’ll go. For the family. For you! But if you don’t want to – if you think your little hurley game is more important than all our well-being, then just say so and we won’t go. Your father will tear up his contract and we’ll try and get by on my classes. Chances are, Pat will have to go on the dole but as long as you see your precious match that’ll be all right. It’s up to you, Benny. Think carefully before deciding the family’s fate.’

Eyes brimming with tears, Jessica rose and swept from the room. It was a masterful performance. She had pushed all the right buttons. She’d hit Benny with anger, guilt and the most effective of parental tools, responsibility. Flawless. Benny was cornered. He could feel the eyes of the remaining family members on him.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll cop on to meself.’

Pat Shaw relaxed, his shoulders sinking back to their normal level. ‘Good man, Benny. It means a lot to me.’

Benny grunted, unwilling to give up his sulk altogether.

‘Now, you two go on and watch the telly. I’ll see if your Mam’s okay.’

The brothers bolted for the remote control. Benny was closer to the door, but Georgie went through the serving hatch. They scuffled noisily, but the squealing was harmless. Pat let them off. Take your victories where you can get them. Jessica was sitting on the stairs, a handkerchief over her face.

‘You are something,’ smiled Pat. ‘You nearly had me convinced.’

‘Nearly?’ prodded Jessica.

‘More than nearly,’ admitted Pat. ‘Poor old Benny, he never had a chance.’

Jessica sighed. ‘Maybe now we can all have one.’

Pat pulled her up and hugged her close.

THE EDGE OF THE DESERT

Grandad dropped them to the airport. Benny’s two buddies actually showed up at six a.m. to see them off. They stood desolately by the wall, picking scabs off their elbows. Jessica felt a bit weepy at the gesture. She tousled Benny’s hair.

‘We can afford a minute to say goodbye to Eamonn and Niall,’ she whispered.

Benny dropped his O’Neill’s bag and trotted down to the gate. ‘How’s it going there, lads?’

‘Grand,’ answered Eamonn, his eyes still crusty with sleep.

‘Right so,’ said Benny. ‘I’ll see yez in a year.’

And that was that.

‘Are you sure you don’t want some more time, Bernard?’ asked his mother. ‘It’s not healthy to hold back your feelings.’

Benny flattened his cowslick. ‘I’m hardly going to kiss them, am I? I’m ready. Are we off or what?’ They loaded up the trailer without further emotional outbreak.

Benny had his hurley strapped to his chest, safely bound in sports socks. He caused a few minor glitches at the airport, setting off the metal detector because of the metal band on the hurley, and generally giving the impression of being a threat to civilised living. But they finally boarded. Georgie was sad wishing his Grandad farewell, Benny distraught over losing a steady source of fivers.

Heathrow airport was as busy and rushed as Dublin, but at last they boarded Tunis Air flight TU-790 and were soon flying over France at eight hundred miles per hour. Benny lounged in his seat – this flying thing was old hat to him already, on the second flight of his life. He was trying not to stare at the other passengers. A lot of them were foreigners. Tunisians. Most of them didn’t look African, not like you’d expect. Not like in Zulu or the Tarzan films. More Araby or Italian. Plus, they all seemed to be from the one family. Roaring at one another down the length of the plane. A gregarious, smiley bunch.

The plane nosed into its descent. The pilot proved to be a bit of a free spirit. By the time the tyres scraped tarmac, he’d performed every possible aerial manoeuvre with the exception of a victory roll. They bounced along, one wheel at a time, slowing to a shuddering halt.

The Tunisian passengers erupted in spontaneous applause, lighting up celebratory cigarettes. With much hugging and slapping of shoulders they clambered up on the seats, emptying out the overhead lockers. It was incredible that so much could be crammed into such small spaces. There were quilts and bicycles. Chairs and lamps. Satellite dishes and baby strollers. Benny could have sworn that one sack wriggled as it passed him. He decided to ignore it.

The Shaws smelled Tunisia before they saw it. When the doors were finally cracked open, the outside air flooded in. It was heavy and sweet, with hints of spices and sweat. It made you sleepy and excited, as though the culture of the country was woven through its oxygen. The Tunisians were climbing over one another to get out the door, but the Shaws were frozen, nervous, now that the enormity of their move was upon them.

Da broke the spell. ‘Right, you crowd,’ he said, reaching for the bags. ‘Let’s get a move on. There should be a car waiting.’

Two hours later, with the last evening sun-rays bouncing off the one-way security glass, the car was still waiting. The Shaws’ luggage somehow hadn’t made the connection and was stranded in Heathrow. Benny stared at the baggage conveyer, convinced that if he looked hard enough his gear bag would come lurching through the flaps. What he was really doing was ignoring his surroundings. It was all too much. The heat sapped his natural doggedness and wrapped around him like an electric blanket. His layers of clothing hung off him in soppy ropes.

Pat Shaw was embroiled in a frustrating discussion with a customs’ man and the EuroGas driver. One spoke mostly French, the other only Arabic, and Da had just English in a Wexford accent. It was a linguist’s nightmare.

‘No bags,’ said Pat. ‘Bags gone.’

‘Pas de baggage,’ explained the driver to the customs’ man.

‘Yes!’ enthused Da. A breakthrough. ‘Paddy’s baggage. That’s it.’

Benny looked around at the people. They weren’t Irish for a start. Now Benny was no eejit, he wasn’t expecting the Tunisian nationals to be Irish. What he did expect was darkish people with Irishy personalities. That was not what he got. The Tunisians weren’t interested in conforming to Benny’s preconceptions. They stubbornly insisted on being themselves. You couldn’t even categorise them. Successive waves of Muslim and European invaders, combined with darker genes from south of the Sahara, made appearances unpredictable. It was like every race in the world was focused here. One second you were looking at a black lad all dressed up like one of them rappers, the next some little red-haired pale-faced chap was trying to sell you flowers.

Da eventually gave up wrangling with the customs’ guy. He rejoined his family, talking to the ground. He was mad. Fuming. Benny had seen him like this only on one previous occasion: a little mix-up over report cards and forged signatures. Mam linked his arm, and it cooled him down, as it always did.

‘The situation is this,’ said Da, his voice raised over the surrounding hubbub. ‘We’re going to head off to Sfax and they’ll send the bags down when they get here.’

‘If,’ interjected Benny.

Da glared at him. ‘Don’t start on me, Benny. I’m still not over all those delays in customs. You and that hurley! I feel like breaking it across your behind.’

The one thing about Da was that he never bluffed. Benny hugged his hurley protectively. They were in Africa now. The threat of having your children removed by social services was no longer valid. It was even conceivable that they could sell him to slave traders!

The family straggled out to the jeep. As they out-distanced the last breath of whatever air conditioning there was, the temperature and humidity soared in a matter of inches. Benny felt a wall of heat suck the breath from his lungs.

The jeep, at least, was not a disappointment. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t actually a Jeep jeep, it was a Land Rover Discovery. But to Benny that was as near as made no difference. The driver let them in, unlocking the doors with a remote. Fairly knacky all right, thought Benny, duly impressed. He clambered into the back, the vehicle’s height separating him from his surroundings. He could almost pretend he was in the back of a bus at home. He closed his eyes and hunkered down low, but it was no use. Africa wouldn’t go away.

The city flashed by their speeding vehicle. They hared along at an inordinate pace. And everywhere the Tunisians argued as they went. They hung out the windows hollering, tooted their horns incessantly and piled whole families on fragile mopeds.

Benny realised he was nodding off, a haze was settling over his vision. His drooping senses picked out details from the roadside. Kids selling flowers at the traffic lights, risking mortal injury under the wheels of Libyan tankers. They should be in bed, not cracking their toenails on rough tarmac. Benny fought sleep, holding one eye open. There was much more to see. Georgie had passed out. But he, the mighty Bernard, would outlast The Crawler. This was Africa. Wonders lurked around every corner. Don’t miss it. Don’t …

Benny was in Africa, asleep, thousands of miles from home. His brain had gone into overload and decided to shut down. The two brothers snuggled close, snoring and drooling all over each other. You could almost feel the tension seeping out of the jeep.

Benny was awake again. Happened every morning. But something had woken him. Something besides the strangeness. It sounded as though a van was turning over outside his door. He sat up. He was in a small rectangular room. Benny wasn’t known for being much of a style guru, but compared to the chaps who did this room, he could be writing for Cosmo-whatever. There was a horrendous quilt draped over the bed that for some reason reminded him of a stomach bug he’d once had. The curtains were pink. You’re probably thinking, how lovely, pastel pink. Wrong. This was shiny, reflective pink. Watery, cream emulsion covered the walls so that the plasterboard showed through. There were two units in the room: a desk with wickerwork drawers and a mismatched deep brown, fake teak wardrobe. Benny immediately loved it. Now here was a room you wouldn’t be afraid to wreck. If he kicked a few balls into the beige skirting board, Ma would probably thank him.

So this was Sfax. Chilly enough all the same. Right old breeze coming in through that vent. Benny’s throat was dried up by the cold air. Then he remembered air conditioning. That was it. Must have an engine big enough to power a tractor.

The same maniac decorator had been let loose in the sitting room. Same lurid curtains and bland grey carpet. The stomach-bug pattern had been carried over to the three-piece suite. A few squat multi-purpose units were dotted along the walls. Benny threw himself on to the couch. It defied him, keeping its shape. He beat it with elbows and knees. Soon, he thought, you will be mine.

Benny didn’t study the kitchen much. It was grand, he supposed. There was a heap of kitcheny stuff. Cookers and that. Nothing much in the fridge. A couple of cartons of orange juice. Benny tore one open and squirted half its contents down his throat. He had no idea what time it was. Early. There wasn’t a peep from the other rooms. Probably worn out after the journey. His hurley was propped in a corner. Benny grabbed it and dug a tennis ball from his O’Neill’s bag. He wasn’t going to risk the precious sliotar in an unknown environment.

When he opened the front door, Benny realised just how effective the AC was. Humidity flowed in like hot honey, along with yesterday’s smells. The sun throbbed on his scalp. The Irish boy hopped outside into the nearest shadow. Of course the dreaded cowslick was now at full mast.

He took a good look around Marhaba village – apparently Marhaba meant ‘welcome’ or something. ‘Village’ was a bit of an optimistic name for this place. ‘Camp’, he decided, was a bit more honest. The identical box-like units curved down to the gate. They looked like porta-cabins. The roofs were flat – obviously no-one was expecting rain. Benny hopped down the narrow garden, trying to stay out of the sun. The grass bounced under his feet. Benny stopped to examine it. Playing surfaces were very important to him. You couldn’t really call it grass. More like scutch, or springy weed. The sandy clay was visible through the sparse growth. You’d give yourself some skinning taking a tumble on that stuff. It’d be good for sidelines though. A sliotar could balance up on one blade.

Benny ambled down towards the gate. A big barred barricade. It looked like they were trying to keep out more than dogs. There were even spotlights and a guardhouse. Fairly paranoid sort of set-up for a stable country. There was a chap standing by the gate. A big Tunisian fellow in a blue jumpsuit. He had Docs on him, laced all the way up his shins. His bald head would blind you if the sun caught him at the right angle.

Benny gave him a nod, but your man was having none of the friendliness bit. He’s probably scared, thought Benny. His orders are not to get over-familiar with the white man. He flashed the man his sincerest smile.

‘Howza goin’ there?’

The man glared at him through slitted eyes. Other children might have been scared by the guard’s snarling visage, but Benny Shaw had yet to meet an adult that could catch him.

‘Howza goin?’ repeated Benny gamely.

‘English only,’ grunted the guard.

‘Huh?’

‘English. I speak just English.’

‘Yeah. I’m just after asking you how’s the form?’

The man enunciated carefully. ‘Een-gel-ish only.’

Benny retreated, never suspecting that his strong Wexford accent could be the culprit. He gave the guard a scowl and journeyed on.

The village was enclosed by a high wall. Not that high though. Benny thought he could manage it with a good run. The whole area was dead flat, with strange, ancient-looking trees dotted between the houses. It was as though someone had planted a roomful of arthritic pensioners. These were the famous olive trees, he supposed. Benny followed the blacktop road around, stepping over huge speed bumps. The camp seemed to be roughly circular in shape, with two rows of living units in one half, and an assortment of buildings in the other. But right there in the centre, surrounded by a low wall of red ornamental brick work, was the pool. An outdoor swimming pool! Benny’s pulse quickened. At last, a plus to this whole African thing.

As he neared the pool, gurgling, laughing noises mingled with the splashing. Sounded like girls. Mixed feelings on that score. He didn’t despise them with the same passion that he used to. In fact, Benny suspected that there would come a time in the not-too-distant future when he might develop a mysterious interest in them. There was a railed-off baby pool before the main job. A couple of young lads were splashing around in a half-foot of water. Their mother, or whatever, was lounging on a lilo in the shade. The boys gave Benny that wide-eyed, tongues-out look reserved for strangers. Benny responded with a snarl and a shake of the hurley. You had to sort the nippers out early or they might get cheeky.

There was a sandpit with a couple of animal slides in it. Benny crawled up an elephant’s back. He still couldn’t see much of the main pool area. It sounded excellent though. Music, roaring and laughter. He felt a twinge of hope. Benny slid down the trunk and tapped the tennis ball off ahead of him. It rolled ‘accidentally’ to the pool wall. Sure, then of course, Benny had to go get it. With an exasperated expression his Ma would be proud of, he trotted over to the wall. Rubbing the dust from his tennis ball, Benny nonchalantly peeked through the cavities. What he saw there made him forget he wasn’t looking.

There was a gang of them horsing around in the pool. This in itself was not a particularly startling event. It wasn’t as though Benny had never seen a swimming pool before. Half the school went across the bridge to Ferrybank pool every Wednesday. The Saint Jerome’s excursions involved dive-bombing, frantic dogpaddling in the shallow end and more than a few chancers trying to pass off boxer shorts as swimming trunks.

These kids in front of him looked like they were out of a Budget Travel advert. Most of them were bleached blond by the sun. Their hair looked grand, even after a soaking. When Benny emerged from any wet environment you’d swear someone had dropped a wet rat on his head. Their togs were expensive-looking too. Benny thought of his own multipurpose nicks. He was starting to feel decidedly uncultured. A tall girl launched herself from the diving board. She was pretty and tanned. Long brown legs slicing the water. Benny glanced at his own knees. Whatever wasn’t scabbed and flaky was an anaemic blue-white.

Benny decided he wasn’t ready for this yet. He’d just take a few days to let the bruises on his legs heal up. Maybe plaster some of Ma’s mousse on the cowslick. His reticence shocked him. Usually he’d be in like a shot, ploughing up and down the pool with the best of them. He was well able to swim. But these guys had loads of fancy little flicks and kicks that would make him look like a plodder. That would be mortifying altogether. Time to move on.