(from A Certain Place of Dreams)

In the bare cold light of the first dawn the stairs just east of the Bishopsgate are cold and lightly polished by the damp of the night.

I sit there smoking a Camel. Breathing in the last of the night’s air. To my left, beyond the gate, lies the old prison block of the half-millennia British Regime. To my right, across the street, the old green steel walls of the Brit fort stand, with video cameras still bristling, though human heartbeats have mostly disappeared from the scene. Behind me the malls and theaters of the new Derry tumble toward the riverbanks. Over there, straight ahead and down the other side of the hill, the Free Derry Corner and the Bogside slumber.

Martin comes through the gate. He looks awful. He looks ancient. Yet, is he five years older than me? or a bit more? I am unsure. I know him immediately, and he me, though it has been at least a decade. He pauses in the middle of Bishops Street. “Who the fuck let a piece of shite like you back into town?” “Where the fuck would the likes of you be going this time o’ the morning?” We laugh. I get up and hug him. I light two cigarettes off mine and hand him one, take a deep drag off the two I momentarily hold, than toss the butt in a high arc toward the green fort. It falls and rolls in a tiny shower of sparks before sizzling out on the wet pavement.

He tells me that he is on his way to work. I ask where. He says he does prep stuff at the restaurant on the third floor of Austin’s on the Diamond. I say something about that keeping him out of trouble. He says he’s heard that I do “interesting things.” I tell him that I’ve always tried to do that.

In 1972 Martin disappeared from home and joined the new Provos. He came back on occasion, often in camouflage and hood, usually with a rifle in hand. We all heard stories. Some were probably true. Then we knew he spent a decade in prison, but there was never really a charge or a trial, so, maybe yes and maybe no. When we told stories about him we made him part of everything. Why not? Did he pull off a bombing in London? in Liverpool? “Hometown boy makes good” kind of thing. Anyway, he came back more than a decade ago. And never said a thing. But we know where he was when Omagh happened, and he didn’t do that, and we have all, more or less, decided that if it’s from before the Good Friday Agreement, it belongs in the past. This seems either fair or necessary.

“They’re gone,” he says, pointing to the fort. “That’s what the news says this morning. They’re done policing.” “Still here though,” I say. “Ya,” he answers, “The wankers are still here, don’t know how we’ll ever really get rid of ‘em.” “Not for lack of trying.” “Not for lack of trying,” he repeats, and it is indescribably sad to hear him say these words. “They’ll become irrelevant,” I say, “We’ll just be Europeans, we’ll get the Euro, the evidence of them will disappear.”

He finishes the cigarette, asks for another without words. I light two more, pass him one. In synchronized movement we both flick our butts toward the fort. “You were raised to be an optimist,” he tells me. “It’s those American genetics.” Now just I laugh. “Tis better now? Is it not?” He manages a small smile. “Wouldn’a be better except for the struggle.” He stares at me. “Best be on my way,” he says, “the coffee will not grind itself.” “I’ll see you around,” I say as he starts down the street. “Go home and go to sleep,” he yells back, “I can see you’ve been up all the night thinking. That’s always been bad for ya.” “Or I can come by for coffee,” I suggest. “We donn’a open til ten, go to sleep til...” 

I sit back down. The sunrise is peeling the shadows from the scene. But the stones are still chilled. 

Ira Socol