Sure, it was one day at a time, but he was doing alright. He had long seen the error of his ways. Hadn't he given himself up to the law? Hadn't he done his time, stayed clean inside, and was now enjoying the second act of his life? No booze, no drugs, no grief. He was out now three years, his former self fast disappearing in the rearview mirror.

On a mid-Summer rainy morning, Francis Condra gave an interview to this newspaper. He was something of a novelty. Having served a jail sentence for violent crime, he was now embarking on a career as a playwright.

His first work was about to be performed at the Droichead Arts Centre in Drogheda. John Lonergan had accepted an invitation to attend. Judge Raymond Groarke, who had jailed Condra, hadn't yet replied to his invitation. His second play was scheduled for the Dublin Fringe Festival in late September.

He was big into the therapeutic properties of the arts.

"This whole area is not exploited enough, " he said. "I know from my own case that there is a huge connection between the therapeutic element in my life and drama. It gave me enough confidence to leave everything behind."

No question about it. Francis Condra was an example of redemption and rehabilitation.

8 NOVEMBER 2003: The woman was disorientated and dishevelled when she walked into the garda station in Drogheda. It was just after 7.30am. She was middle-aged and appeared to have been the victim of a violent assault. She told the gardai she had been raped.

"She didn't seem to realise the extent of her injuries, " Garda Nigel McInaw told the Central Criminal Court.

The garda called an ambulance to bring her to Our Lady of Lourdes Hospital. She was then transferred to the Rotunda Rape Treatment Centre. A search warrant was obtained and party of officers assembled.

They went to an address in Upper Magdelene Street, a flat rented in the name of Francis Condra.

When they knocked on the door, there was no reply. The gardai forced entry.

HE could trace it all back to the drugs and they were behind him now. Condra rolled a cigarette as he began to relate the bad old days.

He was born in London but the family came home to a farm in Collon, CoLouth, before moving to Raheny in Dublin, where he was largely reared.

He came of age in the depressed '80s and took the boat to England. It was over there that he developed a penchant for cocaine. He was back and forth a lot. In Drogheda, he met a woman and fathered a daughter, but the coke held sway over any notions of family life.

He worked at various jobs, postman, chef, labourer. Then, through the drugs, he fell in with some fellas who knew a thing or two about robbing.

"I was over and back from England, " he said. "Living in Peterborough during the week and returning here at weekends and going robbing with these fellas."

In September 1997, he was lifted under Section 30 of the Offences Against the State Act. He was detained for 48 hours and began climbing the walls, craving a fix.

In the midst of the pain, his station in life flashed before him.

"I had a moment of clarity, " he said. "I came to the realisation that I was f**ked from crime and drugs and had to do something about it." The day after they let him out, he visited a church. Later that day, he walked back into Dundalk garda station and made a statement about two robberies in the previous 12 months.

Recalling the events that saw his life turn around, a smile played on the corners of Condra's mouth, as if he was reflecting on how low he had sunk. He could smile about it now. It was all behind him.

INSIDE the flat, there was blood everywhere. On the walls, on the duvet, on the sheet, on the mattress. There was a long bladed knife splattered with blood. When the woman was fit to give a statement, she told the gardai she had gone the previous night to a local pub, where she met Condra in company. He invited her and others back to his flat.

There, he produced "a tin of weed" and passed it around. When the others left, her ordeal began. Around 2am, Condra dragged her by the hair into the bedroom. He told her he was going to rape her. Then he began. She tried to talk to him, but he just kept hitting her.

At one point he left the bedroom. She tried to phone the gardai on her mobile. He walked in and told her he would kill her. He got the knife from the kitchen and held it to her throat. He cut her. When she tried to fend him off, she cut her hand. Through it all, she kept screaming, and he kept hitting her. This went on until 7am, when she managed to flee.

HE stayed clean in the Joy. When his case came before Dundalk Circuit Court, he was handed six- and three-year sentences to run concurrently. One of the robberies had included the imprisonment of a young woman and use of an imitation firearm, so even though he was co-operating fully, there was no way that a long stretch could be avoided. Judge Raymond Groarke resolved to review the sentence after two years if Condra stayed clean.

And he did.

"Prison was an enlightening experience, " he said. "There is plenty of time to concentrate. If you want you can concentrate on where to get the next fix of heroin, and a lot do that. I concentrated on staying clean."

Inside, he developed an interest in theatre and writing. He got involved in a writing project. He was a model prisoner, a man in a hurry to pay his debt to society and embark on a new life. His case came up for review in mid-2000, and on the basis of his conduct, he was released.

Once out, he enrolled in a theatre course.

His play What The Eyes Don't See was accepted for a run in the Droichead Arts Centre. A one-man show, Inside Out, based on his prison experience, got onto the bill at the Dublin Fringe Festival. He was working with addicts and homeless people, using drama as a therapeutic tool.

The Sunday Tribune article based on the interview with Condra in August 2003 concluded as follows: "His own future is coated in a sheen alien to the frenzied world he inhabited for two decades. He is cautious about his recovery, a day at a time.

No more coke, no more imitation firearms, no more preoccupation with the next score. These days the drama in his life takes place in his head and on the stage."

ON 22 February last, a jury found Condra guilty of rape and false imprisonment after an 11-day trial. In his previous life of crime, Condra came clean, confessed and pleaded guilty. This time he tried to tough it out, adding the ordeal of a trial to his victim.

After six days of the trial, he changed his plea to guilty for aggravated sexual assault and assault causing harm. He still maintained his innocence of the charge of rape until the jury convicted him.

Last Wednesday, Mr Justice Henry Abbott sentenced him to 16 years in prison, saying the rape had included "lots of savage violence and continuous threats of death". Detective Garda Seamus Nolan told the court he had never come across a sexual assault of such barbarity.

A few weeks before he raped the defenceless woman, Condra's play was playing at the Project Arts Centre, receiving critical acclaim in the Dublin Fringe Festival. But, patently, by the night of the rape, he was no longer abstaining from alcohol or drugs. At 43 years of age, and with no previous record of sexual violence, he engaged in a crime more savage than anything he had perpetrated prior to his "moment of clarity" in 1997.

Soon after the rape he moved to Dublin and began working with a charity agency for the homeless. His record, and the pending charges, went undetected right up until his trial.

On Wednesday, his defence counsel told the court he regretted what he had done. It was the first time he had expressed any remorse for the terror and violence he had inflicted on the woman.