A few doors away from the Irish Embassy in London live the former Conservative Minister, Lord Tebbit, and his wife Margaret. The fluttering Tricolour over the neighbouring Embassy door is a constant reminder of their fleeting involvement in the Irish conflict and the terrible price they paid.

She is permanently paralysed, one of the casualties of the 1984 IRA bombing of the Grand Hotel in Brighton. She uses a wheelchair. Their home has been extensively adapted to her needs. Firemen pulled him from the rubble after several hours and, although his physical injuries have long ago healed, he still bitterly resents what the IRA did to his wife.

It is not surprising therefore that Lord Tebbit is using all his considerable influence to campaign against the early release of prisoners, especially Patrick Magee, the man convicted of the Brighton bombing.

But the Tebbits are only two of an incalculable number of people throughout these islands affected by the prisoners issue in one way or another and who, less publicly, suffer or endure according to their standpoint.

The Tebbits are very unlikely ever to set eyes on Magee when he is freed, but in the small and intertwined communities of Northern Ireland, victims and relatives who have in the past been betrayed and targeted by close neighbours or workmates have frequently come face to face with their attackers.

RUC officers, in particular, constantly come into contact with people who have once set out to kill them or whom they have arrested for trying to kill or maim someone else.

Such proximity frays emotions and fuels the sort of resentment now being whipped up about this aspect of the Belfast Agreement.

Indeed, no other provision in the fledgling agreement has touched so many raw nerves in so many places as the proposals to release prisoners. Apart from those who have lost a loved one or must cope with permanent disability, the loss of a limb, sight, hearing or even their very minds, there are also the relatives and supporters of the prisoners to consider.

In their eyes, those locked up for some of the most brutal offences, including multiple murder, are not criminals but prisoners of war, guilty of nothing more than fighting a just war for a united Ireland, or defending the legitimate political aspiration of continued Union.

A peace deal, in their eyes, entitles the prisoners to come home. One loyalist says: "If you ask people around here about constitutional amendments and referendums, their eyes glaze over. But if you say somebody's brother or father or son is getting out of prison, they want to party."

In the North and the Republic, the plight of the prisoners is also interlocked with the very integrity of the police and criminal justice system and the credibility of the judiciary, all of whom have striven to uphold the law in the teeth of direct intimidation.

The Northern judiciary and police have borne the brunt: three judges, two magistrates and 301 police officers have been murdered. Fake death notices, one instrument of intimidation, have been published for one policeman in newspapers on both sides of the Border.

Through the years of conflict, successive British and Irish governments have concealed their powerlessness and shrouded prisoner issues in creative ambiguity and public hypocrisy. A few weeks ago, Adam Ingram, the Security Minister in Belfast, notably abdicated all responsibility for regaining control of the Maze after two violent deaths within its perimeter because of the uncontrollable turmoil that would inevitably ensue, both in the prison and the community outside.

Although the public line that there are no political prisoners was maintained - even to the extent of seeing 10 deaths in the 1981 hunger strikes - at every turn political expediency dictated the prisoners could have virtual prisoner-of-war status, as they called it.

Their control became so complete that basic security measures like searches and headcounts could be carried out only with their prior agreement. Their control over conditions was conceded to the point where they were even able to dictate the size and quality of the sausage rolls they were served.

During the last 10 years, as the peace process gathered pace, it was clearly understood prisoners were a central issue and their early release would be crucial in any deal. It was inevitable that when it came, any settlement of the issue would be unsavoury to many and an untidy compromise riddled with inconsistency, which would be glossed over or distorted by the conflicting parties to suit their own best ends. That is what has happened.

In the North, the anti-agreement unionists have painted a frightening picture of prematurely freed killers once more roaming the streets. Their hysteria conveniently ignores the fact that since 1985, 190 nationalists, 221 loyalists and 27 other "lifers" have been freed on licence.

Only 18 have had their life licences revoked and been recalled to prison, and only two of them, one from each faction, have been reconvicted of terrorist offences. Some of those released have actually distinguished themselves as community leaders and visionary politicians.

Again, the vast bulk of the prisoners serving fixed sentences would already be freed by the agreement's July 2000 deadline under the normal remission tariffs. What will happen now is that about half the total prisoners, about 200, will get accelerated release over the coming summer months, when the new independent sentence review board gets down to considering their cases. The other 200 will get out sooner than scheduled. Only those affiliated to groups on ceasefire will qualify for release; the risk of them reoffending will be taken into account, and all will be subject to recall to prison for any misconduct.

The position in the Republic is entirely different. There the Government has discretion to order releases, which it most recently exercised soon after the Belfast Agreement, clearly to bolster it in the eyes of doubting republicans. Here, too, by the July 2000 deadline, if the ceasefires hold, Portlaoise will be emptied of all but republicans not adhering to the ceasefire. Among those to be freed in this timespan are the participants in the Balcombe Street siege, who were repatriated after the deal.

These terms conceal serious inconsistencies. The Taoiseach has already conceded, in the face of Garda pressure, that those accused of murdering Det Garda Jerry McCabe may be excluded from the agreement's benefits. There is no similar caveat for those who have perpetrated serious offences against the other police force on this island, which has suffered far more than its Southern counterpart.

Equally, there is a distinct scarcity of policy about what will happen to people subsequently arrested for outstanding crimes, including murder. Of the conflict's almost 3,500 fatalities, people have been made amenable to the courts only for about half the cases. Last week RUC Chief Constable Ronnie Flanagan vowed the outstanding murder files would never be closed.

Whatever the inconsistencies and the political sleight of hand that will be ultimately needed to remedy them in the confidence-building period ahead, the release of the prisoners will prompt the strongest test of the widespread reconciliation and forgiveness essential if the Belfast Agreement is to work.

Some former prisoners and internees, like Billy Hutchinson, David Ervine and Gerry Adams, have already played a remarkable role in building the peace process. Other former prisoners must now prove that having been wreckers, they can be reconcilers.

Chris Ryder, a former member of the Police Authority for Northern Ire- land, is the author of The RUC 1922-1997: A Force Under Fire (Mandarin)