WEDNESDAY, 7 JULY 2004

      ‘For God’s sake bring me a large Scotch.

      What a bloody awful country.’

      Reginald Maudling,

      Secretary of State for Northern Ireland, on the plane back to London after his first visit to Belfast, 1 July 1970

      Moving is easy. Everyone does it. But actually leaving somewhere is difficult. Early last Wednesday morning a ferry was slowly detaching itself from a dock at the edge of Belfast. On it, a man called Geordie was losing. He’d slotted eleven pound coins into the Texas Hold’Em without success – not counting a pair of Kings which briefly rallied his credits – and had now moved two feet to the left, onto the gambler. The three reels spun out into click – a bell, click – a BAR, click – a melon. Fuck all. Geordie’s small hands gripped each side of the machine as if it was a pulpit. He kept on staring at the symbols, which again and again represented nothing but loss. Then he sniffed loudly, peeled his twenty Regals off the machine’s gummy top and sloped away. Eighteen quid down and they hadn’t yet left the harbour.

      The boat, the Ulster Enterprise, was busy, full of families heading over for the long July weekend. Geordie bought a pint of Harp from the gloomy barman and slumped onto a grey horseshoe-shaped sofa in the Poets Bar, then sat forward suddenly and took a pack of playing cards from the black rucksack by his feet. He started dealing out a hand of patience. A short man in a Rangers tracksuit top stopped by his table, swaying a little with the boat, or maybe with drink. His shoulders were broad and bunched with muscle. He held a pint of lager and a pack of Mayfair fags in one hand. The other was in his tracksuit top, distending it like a pregnancy. He had a sky-blue baseball cap with McCrea’s Animal Feed written across it. He looked as if he’d sooner spit on you than speak to you and yet, nodding towards the other pincher of the sofa, he said: ‘All right. This free?’

      Belfast, east, hardnut.

      ‘No, no, go on ahead.’

      The man sat down carefully, like he was very fond of himself, and held Geordie’s eye.

      ‘You think we’ll still have McLeish next season?’ Geordie continued, looking at his tracksuit top.

      ‘Oh aye, I think so, though he’s a bit too interested in players and not enough in tactics.’

      ‘You on holiday?’

      ‘Spot of business.’

      ‘Oh right. I’m seeing some friends. You heading to Scotland?’

      ‘Naw, on down to London.’

      ‘Oh aye? Me too. You not fly?’

      ‘Taking a van.’

      Geordie paused, to see if the offer of a lift was forthcoming. It wasn’t.

      Hot enough today, eh?’

      ‘It’ll do all right. Better that than pissing down.’

      They talked the usual talk. About pubs and places and discovered that the stranger was the nephew of one of Geordie’s dinner ladies. Which was how they swapped names. Ian. Geordie. They played whist and matched pints for the next two hours as the ferry ploughed through the water to Scotland. Just before they got in Geordie went out on deck to clear his head. Outside he shivered and watched the wake turn lacy and fold back into the sea. He felt off. His mouth was dry and the ache in his head suggested that afternoon drinking hadn’t been such a great idea. He turned slightly, to take the wind out of his eyes, and Ian was standing beside him, smiling secretly out to sea. Geordie nodded briskly at him and went in to the toilet.

      When he came back to the table Ian had dealt the pack out and was in the middle of a round of pelmanism. Seeing Ian concentrating on the cards, crouched forward, intent, just as he had been doing earlier, made Geordie feel suddenly well-disposed towards him.

      ‘You not play patience? It’s a better game.’

      Ian turned over the Jack of Hearts.

      ‘No skill in that.