Off the ferry from Scotland and in to a taxi to central Belfast. It’s monthly pay night and it’s going off. Drop my bags at the boarding house and saunter in to town to a bar near the Europa Hotel and then a few more, blending into walls of laughter. It’s a caricature of that picture of dogs smoking pipes and playing pool, except many of the dogs are heroin addicts or spent serious time in jail during The Troubles.

“So what’s Australia like,” asks a woman.

“Like Austria but with more Minogues”

And then alone to a party off Falls Road and the bouncer out the front says ‘fuck orf’ which is fair, considering the staggering, so I’m about to weave back in to town when an Artful Dodger appears out of the shadows.

He’s crook, bashed by his Dad and he’s had a few and, “fuck, is that vodka you’re carrying?” He goes on about his head and he’s bleedin’ so I says, “where’s the hospital?” And he says, “follow me” but I’m bursting for a piss and he says just a little further, just a little further and he says, “righto, if ya gotta go, ya gotta go.”

Relief is jolted by a yell high on a black steel gate and a search light, with the silhouette of flak jacket and Armalite.

“What the fuck you doin’ pissin’ ‘ear? Fuck orf you little shit!”

The Artful Dodger is roaring. “Aww fuck mon, that’s so funny – that’s a British fort! You ain’t from around ‘ear are you?”

It’s midnight and the hospital triage line snakes out the door and I say to the charge nurse, as sober as sober can, with the vodka behind my back, “I’m an Australian doctor and this young fellow here has a nasty contusion and his left pupil is enlarged and it might not be a bad idea – indemnity and headline wise – to weave some magic on him now.”

Twenty minutes later he emerges with bandages and smiles and says, “follow me”, which is what I’ve been doing for the last 40 minutes, through tenements, forts and sirens.

We make our way to Dunfield Park and out of the darkness come three men, larger and older than Artful. They walk with purpose and he says, “it’s alright, I know ‘em” and we shake hands and they call me a ‘fucking convict’, as a term of endearment.

We walk 300 yards through the back streets to a burnt out Cortina in a cul de sac. The car has a working radio and rugs over the seats and we crack the vodka and pass it around and listen to The Corrs and drink until the vodka runs out.

It’s a whip around for 40 pound and the big guy in the back, who looks like Montgomery Clift, gets on the mobile and says, “yeah, Jimmy, we’ll have another bottle of vodka, half an ounce of weed and oh yeah, two packets of Stuvyies.”

We talk about parents and girls. Artful says one day as sure as hell, he’s going to kill his Da. Kill him stone dead. But Montgomery cuts in and yells “run, just fucking run” and we fly as search lights from a British APC hit the Cortina. We’re hiding behind parked cars and the Brits point their guns at Artful dancing on the bonnet and it’s, “fuck you Brit cunts, why don’t you fuck off and go home.” He’s an angry jockey on a burnt out horse; hysterical, a pisser.

It’s fists in mouth stuff because the Brits are only 50 yards away and we try not to look at each other or Artful doing his war dance in the spotlight and Montgomery rolls over to catch the stars and the gun in the waist band of his trousers is silver and .45 calibre and he knows I’ve seen it.

As the Brits leave, Artful comes over and says, “I told those fuckers good and proper, didn’t I? They won’t come around ‘ere any time soon.”

It’s 2.00am and more liquor and dope arrive for a 20 per cent fee. We sit on the bonnet of the car and smoke cigarettes and Monty (I feel I’ve got to know him), releases the widow maker from his waist band and the others go, ‘aaawww, what the fuck you doin?’

And they get in to the Cortina without me and conference about my knowing for a long ten minutes. They’re sizing up character, muzzle velocity and fate. I stick my head through the passenger window and ask, “what’s the verdict?”

Four men put trigger fingers to their lips and go, “sssshhhhh. Loose lips sink relationships,” and the mobile phone is out again and Artful says, “how about a little wine this time?”