WEDNESDAY, 7 JULY 2004

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 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 the 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, theUlster 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. ...

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