The Belfast Boys is a coming-of-age, historical novel set in Belfast, Northern Ireland and in Dublin
during the period of the "The Troubles" in the 1980s and 1990s. It follows two boys, one Catholic and
one Protestant, as they discover their budding friendship during this time of religious strife and grow to
manhood. The table of contents and sample pages from chapter one are shown below.
 Copyright © 2003 by Paul Roebling
Contents
1. First Encounter..........................................1
2. Belfast Botanic Gardens...........................41
3. New Jobs and a New Awareness...............80
4. Riches to the Ragged..............................133
5. Another Discovery.................................175
6. The Plan................................................221
7. On My Own...........................................261
8. Off to Dublin..........................................308
9. A Mate for Alex......................................340
10. Christmas Visits......................................377
11. Summer Follies.......................................417
12. London Holiday......................................460
13. The Frankenfood Revolt..........................505
14. Ali Arrives in Paradise.......................... ...549
15. Patrick Gets a Son...................................593
16. A Place of Our Own................................637
17. Professor Terry Ellsworth........................689
18. Tragedy in Omagh...................................729
Chapter One
First Encounter
Page 1
It was Saturday morning in Belfast, Northern Ireland, and we were off to find some Micks to beat up.
All the Orangemen in our gang called the Irish Micks. Orangemen were the natural enemies of the Micks
because they were Irish Catholics, Provos, and we were Protestant Englishmen, Loyalists. We were not
really men yet but just teenage boys, and at fifteen I was the youngest of our mob of toughs. But I could
say without cheek that I was the smartest of our group; knowing all the history behind the age-old conflict
that we reenacted during out leisure time on Saturdays. That knowledge, and the fact that my older brother
Dexter was a lieutenant in our mob, had gained me acceptance into the gang and some slight respect for my
opinions.
Now we were prowling the no-man's land between the Irish and Protestant sections of our bit of Belfast,
searching for likely quarry; a lone Mick or a small group of Micks that we could overpower and punish
for being - well, for being Micks. It had rained in the early morning, delaying our punitive expedition. Dirty
gray wisps of clouds still scudded low across the overcast sky as we passed the grimy, attached brick houses
of our hunting ground. Murals with slogans of hate and pride shouted at us from the walls and board fences
of the squalid jumble; painted there by the contending parties to reinforce what we already felt inside.
Hugh Marney was the leader of our mob of Mick bashers; tall, muscular and mean. Marney was a bully
even amongst our own kind, making him the perfect type to direct these Saturday outings for rowdy teens.
Page 2
Marney's pimply face and natural scowl gave him an aura of menace that intimidated us as well as the
Micks. And since Marney was also dumb, I had discovered that I could direct his restless hate on occasion,
sparing some while sentencing others to a painful beating. I was beginning to learn, even at fifteen, the power
of words over brawn. It was, at times, a heady feeling. I had even been allowed to compose one of the
Loyalist slogans we had painted on the board fence in the next street over.
Our mob turned the corner onto this dead-end street. At the end of the street, up against the board fence
with our slogan, stood a slim boy with ginger hair. The boy was in the process of painting out my diatribe
against the Micks. There was no need to determine the boy's sympathies. He was a Mick, for sure. At our
approach, the boy turned, fear obvious in his wide eyes as he searched for an escape. But our mob had
spread across the street, ensnaring our prey.
"Now you're for it, snotnose!" Marney called out to the frightened boy.
The boy backed up against the fence, dropping his paintbrush in the process.
"There's no place to run, and we'll make sure you won't be able to run for a long time!" Marney said,
predicting the boy's punishment for defacing an Orangeman's slogan. "Crutches will be what will carry you
when we are through with your skinny arse!"
I had heard the crunch of breaking bones when we had beaten other Micks, so I knew that Marney could
deliver on his promise. Close up, with this hapless lad surrounded by our mob, I could see that the trapped
boy was delicate, handsome and about my own age. The boy's ginger hair, blue eyes and a modest sprinkling
of freckles on milky-white skin gave him an impish charm that I found captivating. Blood was about to mar
that gentle countenance. Something within me wanted to protect the boy; prevent what was about to happen.
Page 3
"I have a better idea," Hugh," I said as Marney was about to deliver the first blow.
"What's better than a good thrashing, Terry?" Marney asked me.
"Humiliation," I responded.
"Make the Mick paint us a new slogan...an anti-Catholic slogan," I suggested. "Have him paint 'The
Pope is a sodomite' and have him sign his name to the slogan."
Uproarious laughter greeted my proposed insult.
"That would be something," Marney agreed. "All right, Mick, get to work...right here," Marney said,
pointing to an unpainted section of the board fence.
The boy hesitated, looking at me questioningly. I nodded with my head and gave him a slight smile,
trying to indicate that this would save him from a beating.
The boy picked up the paintbrush he had dropped and began to write out the anti-Catholic slogan I
had composed.
When the boy had finished, Marney said, "Now sign it!"
The boy hesitated and Marney delivered a blow to the boy's mid-section.
"Sign it!" Marney shouted insistently, looming over the doubled-up boy.
After the boy had regained his feet, he wrote, "Shawn O'Malley" beneath the offending words.
"Now send him away so that he can't paint it back out," I suggested.
"Get out of here, Mick, and don't let us catch you messing with our slogans ever again or you'll get what
for!" Marney snarled menacingly, booting the boy on his bum as he scampered through our mob and up the
street.
Page 4
At the corner, Shawn turned to look back. Inexplicably attracted to this handsome Mick boy, I gave
Shawn a sly wave before he disappeared out of sight.
The primitive members of our hunting party congratulated themselves with hoots and laughs, making
insulting comments about the manhood of the boy who had made me stop and think about what we were
doing on that gray Belfast day.
Our pack set off again on its predatory quest, but my enthusiasm had been dampened by what had just
occurred. The thought of seeing blood on the appealing face of Shawn O'Malley made me sick to my
stomach. How many other boys, not much different than Shawn, had I helped beat and hurt? I had not
been troubled by such savagery before, but the encounter with Shawn had changed me. Why? And why
was I drawn to this particular Irish Catholic boy rather than being repelled as my background of hate dictated?
We had not gone far when I begged off from any further hunting for that day, claiming that I felt crook,
which was not far from the truth.
"You don't look well, Terry," my brother Dexter agreed. "Go home and Mum will fix you up with a
cupa. I'll catch you up later."
With solicitous wishes of good health from the other hunters, I set off back toward the Protestant Crumlin
section of Belfast and away from the Catholic Ardoyne section upon which we had intruded. I walked briskly,
looking about me all the time, not wanting to be caught by Catholic hunters this close to the dividing line.
Copyright © 2003 by Paul Roebling
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