'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…'