Michael Patterson was thirty-four years old. He did voluntary work at Gallaghers' bookstore in The Diamond. Halloween had just ended and already the toy stores and party shops were displaying Christmas stock and decorations. Each day held promise for him. In return for work he got out of pocket expenses and access to many of the classic books. Recently released political prisoners knew how important it was to keep an active and alert mind, so Michael stacked shelves, ran errands and wrote up all the orders for his middle-aged employers.

They were good to him. Davy would take him fishing at the weekends and his wife, Janice, would buy him lunch each day. She would also buy him a book of his choice at the end of every week. At first, he chose books about Crossmaglen or the Shankhill Butchers. He was nervous about his selections. Janice gently coaxed him, recommending one of hers or Davy's favourites. Both of them had been political activists during the 1970's and early 80's, but never talked in detail about it. All they discussed were their worries for the young, the pain of the last thirty years in conflict, or books and films on spirituality. Their fight was over. Michael's battles were changing.

Most evenings he ate in restaurants but when he cooked at home he made simple meals with chicken, vegetables, and whole grain rice. He would shower then go to his room, open up the white-framed windows and look at the people down below on Pump Street. He spent hours doing this. At other times he would sit in a cushioned chair at the end of his bed reading with the radio on quietly in the background. There were stacks of books between the fireplace and the wardrobe, which included Crime and Punishment and One Day in the Life of Ivan Davidovich. He loved when he read about something and it connected with his own way of thinking. He enjoyed books about incarceration or release and was half way through, Hero of the Underworld by Jimmy Boyle, a Scottish writer. Each book seemed to set him free from his violent past. Every word was like sunlight peeping in through softly, blown net curtains on a warm and lazy day. At times, it felt as though he was waking from a bad dream, coming round to regain balance with the outside world. Reading and learning about the changes that had happened while he was inside filled him with hope and wonder.

That afternoon they had been fishing for trout at The Midges between Buncrana and Clonmany. They caught nothing but both swore they were getting nibbles. Davy used different kinds of bait. First, worms then brown bread mixed with fish oil, then sweet corn. After roughly three hours he switched to spinners and lures. Michael watched all this with a peaceful smile on his face, content simply breathing in the moss-scented air. They had been coming up here for seven months and he was the only one to catch anything. A half-pound rainbow trout back in the summer. He savoured the memory of letting it go, watching it idle near the bank, then with a sudden flip of a silvery tail fin how it cut the surface of the lake and disappeared. Davy called it beginners luck.

On the journey home, rain bounced off the green and rusty bonnet of the car as Davy ranted and raved about graffiti and the on-going drug and gang problems affecting the city. There were police checkpoints on The Strand Road. Another bomb scare on the Craigavon Bridge. Sometime during the day, someone had sprayed "Up The Hoods! 2002!" on the War Memorial.