'I'm home, Ted.'

Ted looked around.

'This is it?'

It was mostly light industrial units.

'Not like North Antrim, eh?' said Israel.

'You're right there,' said Ted.

England is a complete mess, of course-everybody knows that-and London is at the heart of the mess, the guts, the nub: vast, cosy, labyrinthine, stinking, fresh and alive-like a bucket of still beating offal. Israel loved it. It was hard to explain, but it felt to Israel as though he'd been in a place where the house lights were permanently dimmed, and now suddenly someone had turned on the lights, turned up the volume and thrown open the windows.

'The ripeness!' he called out, as they came through Hendon.

'What?' said Ted.

'The ripeness,' repeated Israel. 'The full, rich, frothing…richness of it all,' said Israel.

'Jesus,' said Ted.

'Woof,' said Muhammad.

As they came closer and closer to Finchley, Israel was filled with excitement. He could almost feel a Time Out in his hand.

'Time Out!' he said out loud.

'What?'

'London's premier listings magazine.'

'Are ye having some sort of nervous breakdown?' said Ted.

Time Out: the almost pornographic thrill of it in his hand-the pictures, the absurdly boostering coverage of the Arts, the Books, the Films, the Theatre, everything! He could see himself once again at the Royal Opera House! At the Ritzy Cinema in Brixton! At the Serpentine Gallery! The V &A! (Not that he'd ever been to the Royal Opera House. Or the Serpentine Gallery.) This was his city!

'This is my city!' he announced to Ted.

'Aye, right. Well, which road do we want here then?' said Ted.

'Erm.'

It was as though they were drawing close to the very cradle of humanity, the omphalos, the whirlpool, the centre of the universe. First every few miles, and then the half-mile, and quarter-mile, and finally by yards, feet and inches he was confronted by and consumed with memories: the DIY centre where he'd gone with his mother when his father had died, to buy a lighter lawnmower; the place they'd bought his bed and his wardrobe; the shop he'd bought his first bike; the cinema; the bus stop; the school; the youth club; the post box; his street.

Home!

He parked outside the house-not bad. He didn't even clip the kerb. It was like he was driving on air, in a fantasy or a dream.

'We're here,' he said, amazed.

'Well,' said Ted.

'This is home,' said Israel, gesturing at the long bare suburban street, no different from suburban streets anywhere else in England, Scotland, Wales or Northern Ireland. Telegraph poles, flowerpots, a touch of mock Tudor, front gardens paved over for cars. Not much different, in fact, from Tumdrum.

'What do you think?'

'Hmm,' said Ted. 'I thought it'd be-'

'What?' said Israel.

'The way you santer on…' said Ted.

'Yes?'

'I don't rightly know. I was expecting maybe knights and turrets, and streets paved with gold.'

'Right.'

'Mansions. Rolls-Royces.'

'Okay. Yep. Anyway…Come on,' said Israel. 'Mum'll be delighted to see us.'

He jumped down out of the van, and Ted followed.

He rang the doorbell of his parents' standard suburban semi.

'Mum!' he said, when his mother opened the door.

'You're late,' said his mother. 'Dinner's already on the table.'

'Sorry.'

She leaned forward and kissed him and then looked over his shoulder, past Ted, at the van.

'Is that your van?'

'Yes.'

'You can't leave the van there.'

'Why not?'

'You're blocking the drive.'

'Well, that's okay, isn't it?'

'It would be better if you parked it elsewhere.'

'Why?'

'Just park out of the way, somewhere round the corner.'

'But-' 'Do hurry up, Israel, and do what you're told.' Home?

Definitely.

He felt like a child again already.

7

Israel's mother was not a good cook. It was a myth about Jewish mothers, in Israel's experience: he knew a lot of Jewish mothers who were good eaters, but good cooks? Gloria's mother, for example, had ambitions as a cook, but her meals were always somehow inappropriate, or undone by her own ambition: meals made with a random coulis of this and an inexplicable jus of that; and a Puerto Rican fruit and chicken dish she liked to make, soaked in sherry for two days and garnished with candied fruit and raisins; and stuff she liked to do with braised celery; and weird shiny food; and breakfast soups-all of it just…not a good idea. Israel's mother specialised in half-raw roast chicken dinners-put in too late or taken out too early-and also crispy plasticised ready meals, burnt beyond recognition while she was talking on the phone, overcooked casualties of hasty multi-tasking. In Israel's experience, the only good food in the Armstrong household came direct from the deli counter at the Waitrose in Finchley.

As a welcome-home meal, Israel's mother had prepared her signature dish, paprika chicken, which was basically chicken with a lot of paprika sprinkled over it-one part chicken to one part paprika-and cooked with tomatoes and rice until all the constituent parts had broken down to roughly the same size and consistency and were indistinguishable; you could almost drink Israel's mother's paprika chicken. Israel had eaten this meal probably at least once a week for fifteen years before becoming a vegetarian; if he had to identify a particular dish, a particular meal, that had turned him vegetarian, then it was probably paprika chicken: the sickly smell of it, the oils, the colours. The paprika chicken sat now, liquid and fragrant and oily and orange, centre stage on the Armstrong family dinner table. For Israel, in respect of his status as honorary returning family vegetarian, there was a side dish of glistening fried mushrooms.

'Thank you for having us, Mrs Armstrong,' said Ted.

'Thank you, Mr Carson.'

'Please, call me Ted.'

'If you'll call me Eva,' said Israel's mother.

'Is that an Irish name?' said Ted.

'I don't think so,' said Israel's mother. 'Although my late husband was Irish.'

'Oh,' said Ted.

'So we certainly have something in common,' said Israel's mother, who was clearly in good spirits: she'd lit candles, and there was a tablecloth. The meal felt like a special occasion; a family gathering. Israel was there; his mother; his sister, Deborah; and Ted. Deborah's fiancé would be arriving later.

'Well,' Israel's mother was saying, looking at her watch.

'Ari won't be here till later,' said Deborah.

'So we're just waiting for Gloria,' said Israel's mother.

'I'm sure she won't mind if we start,' said Israel.

'Are you sure?' said Israel's mother. 'I wouldn't want it to get cold.'

'Yes, absolutely.'

'I'll serve, at least,' said Israel's mother. 'She may be here by then.'

Israel had told Gloria what time he'd be arriving, and she said she'd be there. Probably she was busy.

Israel texted her again.

She was not there by the time the food was served.

'So. Shall we?' said Israel's mother, looking at her watch again.

'Let's,' said Israel.

'No sign of Gloria then?'

'She's probably busy.'

'Well, good. First, a toast. To Israel! It's lovely to have you back! And to Mr Carson!'

'Please, call me Ted,' said Ted.

'Ted. Yes,' she said. 'And your lovely dog.' Israel's mother hated dogs. 'What was it he's called?'

'Muhammad,' said Ted.

'How unusual!'

'After the boxer,' said Israel.

'Woof!' said Muhammad.

'Quite!' said Israel's mother. 'Lovely to have you here. We missed you,' she said to Israel, placing a hand on his arm.

'I missed you too, Mum,' said Israel.