A round of applause awoke Darragh from uneasy sleep. Bright light and chatter washed over him, and as the “fasten your seatbelts” sign dimmed, the dreaded child in the seat behind him bleated:
“Mama, we’re home!”
He stood up, squinting, as cabin bins crashed and people jostled to get off the plane. Waiting stubbornly until it was almost empty, he ambled down the aisle. An air hostesses gave him a jaded beauty queen smile as he left.
Four years, almost to the day. Four years on a holiday visa. Of hard labour, cash under-the-table, no health insurance, of worrying about the authorities. Four great years. He’d had some laughs and made money despite his status. And when he’d come through this same airport three weeks from now, he’d be able to describe himself with that elusive, coveted adjective: legal. God Bless Bruce Morrison.
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