THEY ONLY COME OUT AT NIGHT

The next day I found myself in Belfast, a city I've had no reason to visit in my 26 years on this Earth. Clara and Bonnie were shocked, before I explained to them that for the longest time it didn't offer much to the youthful southern male unless you liked getting your head kicked in.
Naturally I was terrified, and the uneasy quiet that descended on the city centre circa eight o'clock in the evening didn't help matters much. It was a bit like the opening sequence to 28 days Later, except spookier. I couldn't shake the feeling of "What do they know that we don't?" whenever I saw a lone individual lurking the streets at night like we were; no doubt they had emerged from their bunkers in order to scavange some food for their trembling terrified families.
"Why is it so quiet?" Clara mused.
The truth hit me.
"Because they come out at night!"
"Who?"
"The Protestants!"

The two Canadians persuaded me to get up the next morning and take one of the Black Cab Tours of Belfast. Now, for those of you not in the know, this a tour that is is scarier than any Ghost Train in existence, it kicks that Ghostbus tour thingy's ass. For the first forty-five minutes, as the driver drove us into the heart of the Shankill road loyalist stomping ground, I couldn't shake off the feeling I was entering the confines of Mordor, or I was a bit like the bit in Star Wars where they infiltrate the Death Star. The Tour guide was great, encouraged the two Canadians to get out and take a few photos, but added with no sense of comfort to me, that he himself was too scared to get out of the cab. So, folks, I dressed in a strormtrooper outfit and walked across the Shankill Road heartland, being sure to keep my mouth shut the whole time. The tour guide had pointed out one mural of interest:
"Notice," he said in apt ghost-story register, "that this painting of a UVF gunman is painted in such a way that the gun seems to be pointing at you no matter where you stand!"
"Look at him!" said Clara in a loud and proud voice, as we were in the middle of the estate, "he knows your Catholic!"
My eyes darted around to see if anyone was pointing at me screaming Invasion-Of-The-Body-Snatchers style, but thankfully no-one had hear her. Nevertheless I was terrified that Clara's not-too-unsubtle voice should boom some secret information to the rather stern-looking locals.
Somehow I managed to get back into the cab trousers-unsoiled. I felt a little more comfortable I have to admit once we had driven into the Catholic side, and especially when the cab driver himself revealed his own particular bias. And when I say more comfortable I felt that for the first time I could actually speak. And just in case we were in any doubt as to the nature of his affiliation, he took us into the Sinn Fein headquarters no less. And further doubt dissipated when he was in the middle of a stirring oration about Bobby Sands and some mate of his opened the cab's passenger door and had a chat with him. Clara thought it was hillarious:
"So Irish!" she said.

So he drove us back to the hostel and I felt like a new man. I was so relieved I felt I was inhaling for the first time that day. I had never been so self-conscious about my accent. Nor had I ever felt so partisan: I couldn't help but look at Clara disapprovingly as she took a picture of Oliver Cromwell, knowing that he dispossessed my own ancestors. Now though, with a shake of the head and with comfort of distance, I am able to divorce myself of the age-old conflict to lament on the tragedy of Northern polictical history, for both sides. Still, being at its crucible of the historical drama, I couldn't help but feel my heart being pushed in one direction.

After the tour, the fear was not over. It followed me all the way up the Antrim coast, along every winding road, at every roundabout and intersection. For being driven by a Canadian - thats a real real trouser-soiling experience.