From the Shankill Butchers and Mad Dog to a long procession of supergrasses, informers, murderers, bombers, paedophiles and ordinary decent criminals . . . Since 1853, offenders of all shades and inclinations have passed through the massive steel doors of Belfast's Crumlin Road Courthouse, most of them via the narrow, airless underground tunnel that links it to the prison across the road.
"When that iron grille came down and the door banged behind you, it was the most terrifying thing you could imagine. It was like Welcome to Hell," one ex-prisoner recalls. For his generation, the closing of the door signalled a prolonged absence from the outside world.
For previous generations, however, it was often the prologue to the final journey of their lives, with only the gallows and burial within the prison grounds to look forward to. This vast block of Victorian architectural splendour, incongruously painted in coy shades of apricot and cream, holds almost iconic sway amongst Belfast's urban landmarks. Designed to dominate and intimidate, it towers over the industrial wastelands, shabby terraced streets, warehouses-turned-business parks and neat public housing developments of the Crumlin Road, a traffic-choked thoroughfare, the lamp posts of which are festooned with grimy, powder-blue UDA flags proclaiming its territorial allegiance in the present loyalist feud.
The Courthouse was closed about two years ago and it is reported that a firm of property developers acquired the building and the site , but quite what they intend for them remains uncertain. The building stands silent and empty now, not exactly derelict, but heading that way. In a piece of symbolism that it is impossible to ignore, the statue of Justice, perched above the main entrance, has lost her scales.
Inside, the place positively drips history. If its walls could talk, what dark deeds and bizarre horrors they would reveal. For this is the place where almost all the major trials of the past 150 years in the North have been held. Here, many fates were sealed by the verdicts of the notorious Diplock Courts, causing the ethics and morals of the legal system, civil and human rights and the basic concept of justice to come regularly under rigorous scrutiny and criticism.
Into this melting pot of history has stepped Tinderbox Theatre Company - with Convictions, a hugely ambitious, mixed-media installation.
The two-hour "promenade" through the building, from the Civil and Crown Courts to the holding cells, the kitchens, the urinals, the main entrance hall, the jury room and the chillingly-called "witness in fear" room. The audience will be divided into groups to watch a series of 10-minute plays by seven of the North's leading writers - Gary Mitchell, Marie Jones, Damian Gorman, Daragh Carville, Martin Lynch, Owen McCafferty and Nicola McCartney. The route is in itself a journey of discovery, travelling through visual installations by Amanda Montgomery of Queen Street Studios and original music by Belfast composer Neil Martin. And above it all will echo the recorded testimonies of people who worked in the Courthouse over the years - lawyers, cleaners, strip searchers, clerks to the court, kitchen staff and guards.
"It took hours of brain-storming for the ideas to emerge and take shape," says Tinderbox general manager Eamon Quinn. "We called in Paula McFetridge, who was one of the founder members of the company, to act as artistic director. What we wanted was to create a big, meaty piece of drama about Northern Ireland in the here and now. We didn't want a history piece. We asked our writers to explore the themes of justice and the act of passing judgment. The results have been astonishing in their variety."
McFetridge, an actress and director who has worked on a number of large-scale professional and community projects, is clear about what the experience will not be: "It will not be a piece of living history. When audiences arrive, the surveillance lights will be on in the car park and they will be briefed as to what lies ahead. It will be an authentic experience.
`It was a madhouse. The menu listings had to be changed, depending on whether it was a Republican or a Loyalist trial - "Irish Stew" for "Mince and Potatoes", "Ulster Fry" for "Irish Fry" '
`The building will be exactly as it was. Everything that we bring in - props, costumes, lighting, displays - will be fully visible. Nothing will be disguised or tarted up. It was known to be a stinking place. The cleaners - all women, of course - only cleaned as high as they could reach. "We heard some cracking stories from the former workers we interviewed. A canteen hand told us how everyone ate together in the dining hall and that, often, riots and fights would break out. It was a madhouse. The menu listings had to be changed, depending on whether it was a Republican or a Loyalist trial - "Irish Stew" for "Mince and Potatoes", "Ulster Fry" for "Irish Fry". One of the court clerks recalled that women were required to cover their heads in the courtrooms, out of respect for the system. But these were poor, working class people and money was tight, so it was not unusual to see two or three women sheltering under a single outsized hat.
Another thing which really shocked us was the graffiti in the cells and holding rooms. Some of it would break your heart, some of it would sicken you. Some would have you in stitches. The strange thing was, they all allowed each other space on the walls. You don't see people's messages scratched out by someone else." Among that graffiti is a long poem, carved out in a neat hand on a bench in a holding cell. It begins: "King Rat, caught in a trap, He's in the sewers now, where he belongs." It's signed simply "INLA Member" and it makes the blood run cold. It, and other graffiti, will be published, along with the plays and the personal interviews, in a special commemorative book currently in preparation.
Observing quietly, during a tour which led deep into the bowels of the building, is writer Damian Gorman, whose play will be staged in Court No. 4, where smaller, petty cases were usually heard. For almost three years, Gorman has lived near Strasbourg, where his partner is a staff translator with the Council of Europe. Now, with the perspective and distance of self-imposed exile, he has written an amusing, self-deprecating piece, quite removed from his usual reflective, poetic style.
"The play is about a retired judge, who has been living in Canada for years. He comes back to tell his story through the biggest art form going - grand opera. He is pompous, shallow and overblown and dares to speak for a victim, whose story he thinks he knows. He actually says that `victims are the lifeblood of this project', but his `victim' thinks otherwise."
Tinderbox has other surprising things in store for its audiences, but it intends to keep them firmly under wraps. Expect the unexpected.
The Crumlin Road Courthouse Performances run from Friday, October 27th until Saturday, November 11th at 8 p.m., with a matinee on Saturday, November 4th at 2.30 p.m.
