Several months passed by and I was almost at an end of trade school and lamenting that I would miss these lads when it would all be over. There had been fun times like when another boy and I had a friendly wrestle on the roof of the instructor's office. We crashed through it landing on his desk while he was sitting at it. A momentary freeze was followed by uncontrollable laughter as the three of us doubled over in hysterics. These were situations I would have been killed for back in the prison.

Another time, a gang of us were pushing and heaving in the classroom in mock battle while the teacher was gone to his lunch break. I was pushed back by at least five boys and my backside took out a window that was in my path. We all helped to pick away the remains of the glass, leaving the appearance it was still there. When the teacher returned he continued with his instructions leaving us to wonder if he was ever going to notice. No wind blew to give us away, no crawling insect or airborne butterfly, and in the end we just had to tell him.

Everyone in the class chipped in to buy new glass and fix it, while the teacher took it all in good humour, no doubt remembering a time when he had more hair that was darker, and a waist line that was thinner. He might have been the wildest of the bunch too.

The course had lasted almost six months and when it was nearly over, I was feeling a little down, even though with it I was looking forward to working on a real building site.

No one came knocking to the prison offering me an apprenticeship and soon, I came to the realization that nobody would. Weeks passed with the Brothers coming up with another job offer, slightly surpassing the dish washing one, factory floor sweeper. I duly started on a Monday in the Connacht Laundry, a launderette that did exactly what it said on the tin.

They gave me a white jacket and a broom and put me in front of an audience of over twenty ladies on the factory floor. I was mortified. Sweating with embarrassment and driven to distraction for almost two hours, I had enough. Taking off the jacket while holding the broom, I threw both on the floor and walked out to the relief of fresh air. I never looked back.

For the rest of the day I hunted hard for a job. At the end of it I found one with a man that did not ask too many questions. A bricklaying contractor that just wanted to know if I could lay bricks, had a brain, had an address, and had not beaten up anyone. On the latter I had just pipped the post for that is what I did one week later. It also saw me change address before he even entered details of one on my new payslip.

It was now January of 1972 when 'Sylvia's Mother' cried over the airwaves, and Michael had graduated from the mental asylum to a half way house in Salthill no more than a fifteen minute walk away. They could not release him for the school did not want him back, nor did the asylum, and no family claimed him, not even his own though he still had me. The last man standing between him and total despair was that me, a child that had long forgotten too that he still was one. Michael was still only sixteen years old and had not committed any kind of crime. Bar killing us, everybody wanted a way out. I was not even aware that I was about to give it to them when a week later I broke out of the school. I could have picked a better night for it for it was bloody freezing.

I came back from work on a Friday evening and found everyone was at the movie house.

The lights had dimmed as all eyes were on the big screen. The odd scurrying rat had become used to the boys and an informal truce had long existed between them as I saw one take its place between a boy's legs. This minor distraction did not unhinge my focus on what I was about to do for I intended to leave tonight and leave Grant with no doubt that I was not coming back. It was strange when that decision was made several days earlier for it had become intractable now with no turning around if I wanted to. I was losing the discipline to evict rage out of my mind. Michael had been one fire that I could not put out and only action, win or lose, could soothe my soul. I headed for the seats that were reserved only for the Brothers and where Grant was now sitting with another boy called Martin, or "Baby Face" to us.

Martin had been in training, becoming groomed for Grant's sexual deviances and he was not sure of his own identity or where his loyalty lay. On this night it lay with the wrong person after Grant suddenly turned and left his seat to go into the projector room. I wondered was this a ploy or did he really need to change the reel for in the darkness I could not read his face too well. The movie just kept playing anyway. I sat down beside Martin on Grant's seat in the middle of a row of ten. The stage was set as the "Gun Fight at the OK Coral" played yet again on the screen. But a real drama was starting to play out under the same roof for real from where I was sitting, and I was not backing down as Martin put a great show of indignation against my arrogance.

"That's Brother Grant's seat," he wailed.

"It's mine now," I countered.

Almost choking now with disbelief underlined by uncertainty, he threw a punch, even if it was a very weak one, at my jaw. I easily moved out of the way making him miss and threw a hard punch back that didn't. His nose opened up into a mess of blood mingled with tears. That shook me a little for I did not want to hurt him. He fled towards the projector room almost falling over himself from the fright of it all. I just waited for Grant who was taking too long to come back for doubt held him in check, and with no where to hide or save face, he had to attack. He ran at me head on with a punch that hit my face so strong that I doubled up in agony. I swore at myself that I must not fall or I was finished for ever. This kept my momentum and determination going as I brought my head back up with great speed catching Grant under his chin in a bone-crunching blow. A head up rather than a head butt changed everything as movements looked as if in slow motion when Grant began too fall.

The back of his head hit a concrete step behind him and he began to bleed, and I was still not satisfied. He was in a daze as I threw kicks from all sides smashing his glasses along the way, when suddenly I stopped. His white dog collar made me pause for some inexplicable reason.

It was not an intervention from Christ but a form of guilt by association that Grant was one of his soldiers. Heads craned and turned to try and get a good look at what had just happened, and heads that wondered which one of us was on the floor. I walked away from the sound of his suffering after a clash that had lasted less than a minute. I was out the door before the credits rolled and the lights came on. My ten years in a reformatory system were over and of what to do next, I had not got a clue.

I started to find one when I went to my bed in the dormitory, got everything that I owned that filled one plastic bag, and looked around one last time. Before I could get a chance to go down memory lane, Gerry Hunt, came over from his bed where he was doing his studies, stopped me and asked me what was going on. I was still out of breath with excitement but was able to string a few words together to let him know how it all went down. He pressed a five pound note into my pocket which was equal to my week's wages as an apprentice.

I tried to give it back and told him that I could not pay him anytime soon. He just said, "when you can, you will," and refused my hand. Leaving his company, I picked up the pace and was out of the building as fast as I could thinking the police will be here in a minute, and found the front gate in less time than that. Then it started to rain. Looking up at the night sky, I started to laugh and broke into a run. At fifteen years old with no fixed abode, I just earned the best address of all, freedom.

The euphoria didn't last long for I did not get very far as I soon realized I had no place to go and no room at the inn. Even if there was I had little money to pay my way. By now I had put a mile behind me from the prison and running at an easy jog. The problem was I had no back up plan and was out of ideas. I went with the only option left. I would sleep in one of the farm sheds at the prison and that is what I did. Finding a dry spot among some old and rotting hay, I lay down for the night. Too tired to dream even if I could for I was assaulted instead by the terrible clamour of rain that clanged on the corrugated roof over me, and the wind that whistled through every crevice and crack in the old building. In the end real sleep came as the rain died away and the curious mice went off somewhere else in the darkness. No door came crashing in and by morning the rain and wind had moved on, leaving shafts of light coming through the holes in the roof. It was as if a new dawn was being ushered in by the spirit world to give me hope again that things would get better, and maybe they would for I could not see that it could get any worse.

"Bring it on, you bastards!" was the mantra now but I was not sure that I believed it.

But bring it on in they did, whoever 'they' were.

For the next couple of weeks the farm shed became my room and board, rent free of course. Going to work a lot earlier than I needed to, and coming back to base a lot later than I wanted to was a delicate balancing act. At work, no one seemed to notice that anything was a miss even when it was observed that I was starting to get a bad smell of body odour. My clothes had enough of me as well. But I held on long enough to at last find an apartment in Salthill without putting a deposit down as collateral.

The landlord, I would find out years later, had also been in a reformatory institution when he was a child. I did mumble and falter in my answers to him when it came to where I was from, and from that he put two and two together and mercifully got four.

The apartment had three small bedrooms and it would not be long before they would be occupied. I went to get my brother at the half-way house where he was living, the last stop for him before freedom. Not sure what to expect when I got there other than trouble, it was a great anti-climax. All it required was a signature from a family member to get him out who was older than eighteen years. When I lied about my age they pretended they believed me, and I was sure that everybody sighed with relief when we both walked out of there together.

Three nights later, another boy from the prison knocked at our door and wanted the last bed.

Christy, a boy that I did not even know that well, had gotten wind where we were staying and bolted out the prison gate. He was only a couple of months away from release anyway and felt pretty sure that no one would come looking for him. On that he was right and now we were three. It was also good that Michael was starting to live again in this most 'promising of times'.

Economics played a hand in our next move. Christy had poor trainee wages as an apprentice and so did I, and Michael had no income at all with little prospect of getting some anytime soon. Food was scarce in our little abode and getting decent clothes came a poor second. We needed to get money without anybody getting hurt, and that was when a plan was hatched between us. It never dawned on us much that we were about to break the law, and when we did, the necessity of it all over ruled any quibbles that we might have. The streets were paved with gold with bolted down phone boxes and weighing machines filled with coins that became our booty. Back gardens and open fields served up our vegetables, empty or abandoned houses gave us our pots and pans, blankets and bed. Our tools for the job were a crowbar and quiet focus and we became quite good at it.

After a few weeks we heard that the halfway house that Michael had stayed in had closed down and was just waiting for someone like us to break in. The wait would not be long.

One evening, after stealing a few potatoes from the prison farm, we decided to stake out the halfway house. I was on look out while Michael shimmered up a drainpipe heading for an open window while Christy kept his fear in check. In the house we found a pay phone, cups and saucers, and a working radio. We got to work and headed out on to the main street with our ill gotten gains and coins in deep pockets, even passing an unsuspecting policeman.

Moments later we were confronted by the former manager of the halfway house who recognized Michael. He was good at math's too as he lectured michael on where this was all heading if he choose this life of crime, and never looked at Christy or me as he gave his short but powerful speech. Michael offered to return the goods while never telling him about the coins, but he just told us to keep them. Our life of crime was over, well, sort of...........

Getting used to life on the outside was exciting, tethered only by the fact that neither of us knew many people in Galway or anywhere else. We had to create our own world here as immigrants in a foreign land. Despite this, after a few months I was missing the boys from the prison for they were part of the only life that I knew. This was not helped in my workplace for here I was starting to feel a bit alien as well for I was seen differently that was sometimes a compliment, more often though it was not.

I came into work one day with my latest book, the godfather, by Mario Puzo, and by now I was a familiar sight with one always stuck in my back pocket. This book caught my attention that little bit more because of a very graphic description of a sexual encounter by one of the characters, Sonny, having sex with one of his sisters bridesmaids on her wedding day. The author described Sonny's penis in an original way by calling it 'a blood gorged pole of muscle' with a few more details thrown in too. This had me in hysterics and I could not resist the temptation of reading it aloud to a now gathering crowd in the site canteen. Reading the page with an exaggerated air, the men became a little bit more than wide eyed, revelling in every thrust of Sonny's penis as I raised the bar to pure theatre. I didn't even fully understand what I was reading for sex was still an unknown delight to me, but my instinct told me to crank up the acting out of Sonny's passion. My audience of one repressed carpenter, one depressed plasterer, along with one thirty nine year old male virgin who was a bricklayer, licked lips as every erotic detail poured out, and thats when I knew I was on to something as I commanded that floor if only for a few minutes. Then the foreman barged in and killed the moment forever. By evening, someone had stolen my book from the canteen. No doubt a substitute for 'playboy magazine' for some poor soul that found the sins of the flesh missing in his life. I often wondered later how the 'Godfather' got past the moral guardian of the people, the state sensor, in 1972 . Most probably he just presumed it was about violent robbery and murder only, so that was okay.

I did look a bit odd back then I suppose, wearing a collar and tie while laying brick and blocks, and would be greatly teased because of it. I was also expected to be a bit more macho perhaps instead of reading books all the time. But I didn't mind, and what other place would I rather be than one where I cold enjoy 'Papillion' and other true life classics, but somehow other places had a habit of finding me. I did not understand boundaries either or other peoples ignorance, and when I did it helped seal my lips a bit, at least for a while, like one day when the virgin bricklayer took great offence at me.

I had just finished telling him and another couple of bricklayers about the daily cruelty of the prison and the sexual assults by the brothers. As disbelief ran through them, the virgin made a run at me with a hammer in his hand, and was now pressing it against my temple. Unable to run while also been gripped with his free hand, their was no choice other than to let him scream and shout about how much of a liar I was, and how dare I insult those fine Christian Brothers after all they had done for me. That man would pay a heavy price for not having sex before marriage even if he could. When it happened, love had nothing to do with it.

In frustration to try and find a body to have sex with, he joined Knock, a catholic dating agency, in order to find that special someone. He found her alright and they got married. She was almost half his age, and in love with everything he owned, except him. In little time, the stress of it all drove him into a heart attack, and the second one killed him six weeks later. Before the seasons had changed, she had sold off the family farm, thrown the mother in law to the streets, cleaned out the bank accounts, and the last anyone heard about her again was when she began dating another farmer in the north of the country.

Back in our little apartment, I asked Christy to come back to the prison to meet the boys once again. I very naively thought that the clash between Grant and me was well and truly over now that many month's was behind the event, and even Christy's verbal caution did not deter my resolve from going over there. Christy felt safe for he was not part of that battle and had no problem going along for the ride. Michael took a bow for lots of reasons and reason itself and decided to stay home. So onwards we marched into the valley of the unknown that turned out not to be a good idea.

As Christy and I slid in the back door of the recreation hall of the prison, we were quickly surrounded by a bunch of boys happy to see us and likewise. Revelling in each others company, we were interrupted by another boy who whispered to Christy that Grant wanted to see him. I nodded for him to go along feeling still that all would be fine and chatted away to the lads while still keeping a mindful eye on Christys departing figure. It didn't take long for him to come back minus his smile.

"Barry, we have to get out of here, Grant is going to call the police", Christy said excitedly. "He went mad, cursing and swearing and roaring 'fuck' all the time. I never heard a Christian Brother say 'fuck' before" Well, neither did I, yet saw and heard everything else but that four letter word. It was strange how that could possibly shock us, but it did. We took heed and took off that left me wondering my next move. That night it came to me, I would write a note to Grant.

It was not a love letter but an appeal for peace, and to let bygones be gone and all that load of bollocks. In some strange way a maturity flowed in the words from my pen that night, and today I would pay a handsome penny to see that letter again to remind me of those feelings. One thing was sure, it worked.

Fourteen days passed, and hoping that my message to him would warm his cold heart, I ventured again into the lions den only to be met not by a wounded lion, but one that might live again. Grant quickly found out that I was in the building, and headed in my direction.

I braced myself even when he extended his hand of friendship, and tensed when he put his arm around my shoulder. There was an offering of tea and biscuits, which I declined, and an invitation to return here anytime, which I accepted. The deal was done and the peace would hold.

Grant eventually left the Christian Brothers not too many years after and found himself a woman. I felt then, maybe too confidently, that I was in some way responsible in helping him redeem himself and find his happiness. I turned out to be wrong.

Over the next twelve months, more boys were released from the prison when their time was up which was on or about the eve of their sixteenth birthday, even though they were supposed to be kept there until their eighteenth year. But the Christian Brothers knew all too well this was playing with fire. Their very lives might be at risk from the many ones they had broken and would be facing teenagers the size of men.

Slowly these inmates trickled out onto the streets of Galway, while others were giving accommodation in some lodgings. Their landlords were given guarantees yet again that nothing would be stolen by them, and I found at last that I had friends in Galway city again and knew now where some of them were living.

They were in a big old stone house in the middle of the city long since vacated by it's former residents of a more victorian age. Beautiful cornices adorned the ceilings, though now mouldy and grey from dampness, and nature came bursting through broken and smashed windows. Grandeur mixed with decay enveloped the friendly shadows that awaited me at the top of a once proud staircase, and they were now sitting around a blazing fireplace that was burning the floor boards from the house itself. At least they were being creative with little coinage to buy coal. There was old Sammy and Larry there to greet me with Michael Cleary to join sometime after midnight. He was the food gatherer around here and was not intending to pay for any, so he would be very late.

My brother and Christy, and the rest of us drank cheap cider into the wee hours of the morning, talking about the good old days together along with the bad ones. It was a night of dreamy optimism in the embrace of alcohol driven by a knowledge that we would never grow old. There was an intimacy to it all as with a band of doomed warriors just grateful to have known each other. In those hours of cosy melancholy, it's quietness broken only by the rainwater from the many leaks in the roof, we were as one, even giddy at the thought of a most uncertain future. For me, I would never find the likes of a night like this again.

Back where we lived, there was a knock on our apartment door one wintry night, and this was unusual for we rarely had visitors. It turned out to be Fr. Mc Loughlin, who it seemed had come to lend a hand and we could do with one. He found us accommodation that was part paid by him, with full room and board in the city centre. A family called the kelly's would be our landlords. In my innocence I never asked why the priest was being so nice, just happy to get his help. Years later, it became a lot more clearer. Month's before I had broken out of the prison, I had told him about the sexual abuse by the brothers hoping he would do something about it. He didn't. He had now come to pay a moral debt and protect his reputation for the future. When that future eventually timed into his present, like St. Peter, he would deny everything over and over again, even as other former inmates came forward and stated they had told him the same thing. For now, he was my friend.

As Christy and I packed up to move week later, there was a slight problem, Michael had not come home for the last couple of nights. We knew he was okay for a few people we met spoke to him, so I figured he got into a bit of mischief and would be along in a couple of days or later. The Kellys had our shared room ready and we settled in with ease. It was a double bonus not to have to do our own cooking anymore for we never really did get the hang of it. Here was a family of four girls and two sons, aged from twelve to twenty five along with mum and dad living in their three story home. Sadly, some of them would go on to regret that we had arrived a few months later when Sammy found out where we were and paid a visit. In the meantime their twelve year old daughter, Ger , developed a crush on me, while their twenty two year old one, Mary, had a crush on Christy. I enjoyed just the attention while he enjoyed his first taste of the opposite sex and was not sure afterwards that it had even happened. Then, Sammy came to visit.

When he showed up that day on the doorstep, I smelled trouble. As he stood there in his army camouflage jacket, dock martin boots, John Lennon glasses, and cheesy smile, he looked like a wanted poster. His wrist dangled a watch whose worth far out exceeded the income he did not have, and when he opened his jacket, displayed proudly on its many pockets was over thirty more. The security he carried a little lower down in its folds just in case there was no honour among thieves. This was a serrated knife that would make short work of the toughest meat. Sammy, to put a nice face on it, was a very mobile street vendor and was open for business.

I politely declined all offerings except the knife. As Sammy was telling me about other money earners, he could see that I just wanted peace and be left alone, but he scented something else in Christy after he showed a bit more than passing interest. Sammy would act on that weakness a little later. I joked with him that now that I had bought the knife he would have no defense for himself later. He jumped in front of me in a spider like stance with fists clenched and said, "Barry this all the weapons I need". He did not need to tell me twice as I bought the knife for a pound and never used it to even cut butter. A childish fad I suppose. In the meantime, Sammy sold off all his booty and set out to get more. Where he was getting it from defied logic, showed courage, and probably was the first visible signs of a mental illness. He was going to the very source of the stolen watches, to the people that stole them, the gypsy's who lived at the edge of the city in their poorer version of a trailer park village.

Ritchie had no money to pay them and even if he did, he was not going too. He set out one nasty stormy night to execute his most daring plan to date, robbing the robbers. It didn't quite work out that way.

Pulling on one of the caravan doors where he was sure most of the watches were hidden, and where he knew lived only one woman, Sammy pounced. In the only bed there, and sitting bolt upright on it was one extremely fat, middle aged gypsy with a very mean streak.

The stage was set. Sammy had been sure the raging storm outside would muffle any noise he would make inside, but this woman was born ready for anything as she attacked Sammy with a hurling stick. Something in him would never let him hit a woman and could only defend himself as he bolted back out the door with thumps and screaming ringing in his ears.

In seconds, other gypsies gathered outside and attacked him with great enthusiasm. Luck would shine to night as the cavalry arrived. Sammy, who usually ran from the law was never so happy to run to it as a passing squad car slowed to find out what the melee was all about.

The door flew open of the police car as Sammy broke free and dived into the back seat. They picked up speed forgetting about the 'usual inquiries' as flying objects convinced the police that that might not be a good idea.

Sammy was booked in for the night after seeing a doctor and had breakfast in bed the next morning. They did not know what to charge him with and didn't really want to either.

The two policemen who saved him said it had been the best fun they had in along time. In the end, everybody got to go home. .

There was other plans afoot by Sammy to get more income, tax free as usual and by now the deed was already done. I silently groaned to myself when I saw him again and it was not with relief. He wanted to borrow Christy for an hour or two, and as the two of them walked off together, I had that sinking feeling that life around here would never be the same again.

The next evening, as I went up to our room I noticed Christy's bed had risen a lot higher off the ground. Looking under it I noticed a pawn brokers array of goodies, anything from a tape recorder to an oil painting that was piled high and around his bed. Then I heard Christy hot on my heels.

"Christy," I roared in confrontation.

"I'm only minding it for Sammy," he pleaded.

"Are you as mad as he is, we are all in trouble if it is found here, and he most probably stole it anyway." "No, he bought it off some gypsy's a couple of days ago", Christy innocently said with such belief truth I was sure he was not lying to me.

"But", I said with a bit of desperation in my voice, "someone stole it".

"Anyway just keep it under your bed. I want nothing to do with it and do not go near my bed", I added firmly.

When I got back from work the next day I hoped supper might be ready. That would be the least of my worries. The quietness of the house was unusual as I was met in the kitchen by the family, all coloured by the same depression that hung in the air. The father explained as much as he knew.

Christy was in jail, our room had been torn apart by the police, and the father wanted me out of the house as well. I went upstairs to get my belongings which by now stretched to three plastic bags and could not believe my eyes when I entered the room. It looked like a deranged man had attacked the place in a fit of unbridled rage. The beds were upturned, mattresses cut open with a blade, furniture turned over and broken. For a moment I was not sure who did this. Could it have been the work of some double crossed gypsy or worse? Turns out it was the police. I decided to pay them a visit.

When I got there, I could hear hearty laughter in a room behind the reception desk of the station. The sargent happily brought me to where this sound came from and offered to bring over a cup of tea in a wee while. There was Sammy sitting around a table with three policemen playing cards, enthralling them by his many stories of Derring-do, true or untrue.

In between happy banter they even found time for a few sandwiches. This was all been witnessed by Christy though his cell door, looking quite petrified and not sure what was happening. To him it seemed like fraternity of gangsters had got together to talk about the good old days, and their leader was sixteen year old Sammy. One of them looked around at me almost annoyed that I had interrupted them, and with a poker faced look, asked, "and".

Tactfully I asked to get my own few possessions back that included a measuring tape, a spirit level, but decided not to mention the knife.

"Were you in on this as well", he asked because he had to.

I wanted to get a bit sarcastic but just replied, What about the other fellow", gesturing towards Christy "He was just minding it for Sammy otherwise I would not allow it in the room, and we never knew or asked where the stuff came from".

This policeman could not care less. I got my gear back and Christy was free the next day. Sammy ended up with a three month suspended sentence as long as he did not get into any trouble in that time. He did.

A month later, he relieved a very wealthy tourist of several hundred pounds. The police went to round up the 'usual suspects', while Sammy went around town like a walking billboard that screamed, 'it was me, it was me'. The billboard in question was the brand new expensive suit he was wearing, the smile that came with it, and the gold chain hanging from his neck. He was brought in for more tea and sandwiches and had missed the first two games of cards for the night. A three month sentence later with another six suspended depending on his promise of good behaviour, it was going to be another promise he would find hard to keep.

Back at the Kellys house, they had softened and decided I could stay. Christy moved to an neighbouring town, his life in the fast lane over, and in little time would get very sensible and grow old much too soon. For the first real time in my life I was on my own for Michael had not resurfaced yet, though I knew he was not far away. An idle mind makes for all sorts of fantasies, and mine was another daughter in the house, Patricia. I had never seen her naked or any female in my life. She was nineteen, beautiful, and I wanted to be the first to see her in that most natural of states.

The following Saturday she was having her bath before she went out. It would be my only chance as I crept out on to the roof to get a look at her delicious curves through the bathroom window. As I perched myself very unsteadily on the lead flashing, I could see her alright as nothing more than a mirage for she was enveloped in the fog of steam that came from the bath. Craning my neck for a better look, the tile underneath moved and I began to slide. My heart sank as I looked at over thirty feet that separated me from the living and the dead. Sitting on my backside, I inched back slowly towards my own window and was never so grateful to given another chance. That night, I went back to just dreaming about Patricia.

Sometime later, I got word about Michael. He had been picked up for joyriding and did a job beyond repair by crashing one of the stolen cars head on into a wall. Without the charm of a Sammy behind him, he was given a four month sentence for it. It did not really matter that the old bangers were spare parts with an engine and could hardly go faster than a bicycle. It really came down to whether the judge liked you or the address that came on the charge sheet. For a while at least, life slowed down a little as I started to try to fit in around here.

The Kelly's house had lost its charm and I needed to move and was waiting for the right offer. I got the wrong one and moved in a week later with an old school buddy from the technical school. His name was Vincent.

 Vincent was a little of the wall though not apparent straight away, and was a bit of a Rambo. A survival of the fittest doomsday mentality summed him up pretty good and it was not long before he was trying to drag me into this world. He would hit first and not ask questions later for that would only complicate things. One night, it got more than that when we both had too much to drink and started to walk across O'Briens bridge on a winters night in Galway while the fast moving river roared below us.

Coming from behind and now walking parallel to us on the opposite side of the road was a guy in his late thirties, with a powerful build, and a little short on the height carrying a Napoleonic air. I was singing at the top of my lungs as he passed, and as I was getting ready to rev up another song, he told me simply to "shut the fuck up". My ego was rattled somewhat when I asked him "who the fuck is going to make me". It turns out it would be him as he ran at me catching me with a blow to the stomach. The alcohol in me dulled the pain, and as I tried to step out of the way of the follow up punch that was sure to follow, Vincent had got to him first and hit hard. The man's nose cracked and broke in a instant, with no need for another blow as the guy fell onto his knees leaking blood, his screams an alarm bell for his three mates who were now approaching fast on our heels. Vincent did the only thing he could do, run. He roared after me to do likewise but the alcohol had also dulled my fears for I intended to take on all three guys and what was left of the fellow on the floor. Just then the roar of the river seemed to amplify somewhat, rising to a deafening sound as if the spirit world was warning me to run too, and this time I did. Vincent by now had put a couple of hundred feet between us and looked in some surprise as I passed him and even had to slow to let him catch up. We had a great laugh about it afterwards but I knew then that we had to separate. I moved out the following weekend.

 My new accommodation was in Shantalla with a large family of adult children, three men and three women. This was the Lally family and my new best buddy was their son, Pat.

At this time, I started to break away slowly from my past and liked the new world that had surrounded me. It did not lack excitement, and I loved the movement of change. Pat would get me to socialize more and meet girls, lots of them. One girl in particular, caught my eye.

She was a pretty girl named Louise and though not love at first bite, we got on good.

 After a couple of weeks, I proposed love as only a seventeen year old can, but she proposed the opposite. Telling me that she could not see me again for I came from 'that place' in Salthill.

and anyway, her parents would not allow her to see me anymore. She did not look too distressed in telling me either. I not only came from the wrong side of the tracks, but I had forgotten I had come from there too. My past would become my insecurity, and would go on carrying it around a little too long like a ball and chain. But giving up was not on the cards even when it felt easier to do so.

There was another girl soon after that I loved from a distance. I met through her brother who I started hanging around with for a while. Her name was Rita who was a natural beauty, seventeen years old, and a great personality. She had everything that I admired in a girl. When we met, we were instantly attracted to each other and both of us could not find the words to say it. I froze every time I met her, and often would rehearse the words that I would wish to tell her heart next time but never found the courage to say.

One evening at the beach in Salthill, I saw her walking along the sand playing fetch with her dog. I could see her from the road but she could not see me. I pleaded with myself to do something but instead just kept watching her graceful movements for the longest time. I suffered in silence enough to know that I would do nothing and reluctantly went home. The reality was that deep down I never really believed that any girl could possibly like me. In that, the prison had taken something away deep inside my soul and made me sensitive to any kind of criticism or rejection. Time itself could only heal this one.

Michael resurfaced that Christmas, out on parole for the festivities. It did not take him long to find me, and was not beating around the bush when we met or what he wanted, money, or where he was going to, England. He was tense and harried looking, and he did not intend to return to St Patricks in Dublin [young offenders prison] and was in a hurry to get away. Giving him the last bit of money that I had with mixed feelings, I was not even sure that I was sorry to see him go. He had no forwarding address and was not the type who would write, and in short time I began to believe that I would never meet him again. Though I did not know it, Sammy would join him soon enough.

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