Message #297112

[franksolich]

It was of course black as ink, in the middle of the night, and so I saw nothing of Northern Ireland between Larne and the central railway station of Belfast; there were three other passengers in the 60-seat coach, and so I spent my time anthropologically speculating who they were, and what they might be up to; obviously the Irish, and not the British, sort, and hence up to no good.

The train arrived at the railway station--the distance was not great--and while perhaps a couple score passengers disembarked, they scurried away as quickly as we had come.  The station was enormous, vast, cavernous, and I was all alone in it.

Noticing a ticket window still open, I approached it, asking the man behind it directions to a cheap flophouse or youth hostel in Belfast.  The man looked at me with either contempt or fear (I have no idea which), and quickly pulled down the shade without answering.

Excresence happens.  Sometimes one just has a bad day.

I walked outside the front entrance, and saw lights on the horizon; obviously, the downtown, or commercial, area.  And probably about a mile away. 

So I began walking.

Between the station and the center of Belfast was, obviously, an ancient industrial area, old brick buildings dating from the early Victorian era, seeming to be about three or four stories high.  It was difficult to determine, because while there were doorways, there were few, if any, windows.  It was as if one was walking at the bottom of a deep canyon.  The streetlights were out, with only the moon to guide one.

Indistinctly, about a block in front of me, walked an old man and a little boy, holding hands.  I had no idea why they might be out and about during an hour, and in such a neighborhood, such as this, but there they were.

I got the vague notion about catching up with them, to inquire about Belfast, but the faster I walked, the faster they hurried on.

Then suddenly they evaporated, disappearing into the alcove of a doorway.

Perhaps they lived there, I thought, although it surely didn't seem like an apartment building to me.

The sidewalk curved, and as I curved with it, I walked into the barrel of a rifle.

(Remember, even today, years later, I am not as acquainted with firearms as I should perhaps be; it could have been a machine-gun or a bazooka, for all I knew; I saw only that it had a long barrel.)

I didn't actually "walk into" it; it was about two-thirds my height, or four feet, away from me, pointed directly at my stomach.  At the trigger end of it was a teenager not even old enough to shave every day, dressed in camouflage and intently staring at my chest.

I froze, not only in the sense of standing still, but turning ice-cold.

I dunno how long it was, two seconds, ten seconds, whatever, but the youth relaxed his gaze, seeing something beyond me, and I turned.

Out of some sort of armored jeep bounced a figure of authority and three other camoflauge-attired youths.

The first thing I noticed--even before height, size, age--was the royal monogram, "EiiR" on his hat.

I heaved a sigh of relief; I had fallen among friends, not foes.

oops, and damn it, the cat William is trying to bring in a dead bird, and I have to go stop it, as one of the other rules here is no dead wildlife inside the house--sorry for the interruption