I remember, in the early 1980's, walking home one night from a girlfriend's flat. Normally I would have called one of my friends up; he owned a taxi, and would sometimes collect me in those early hours. These were in the days before all-night taxi services in my town.
My friend couldn't pick me up, and I had to walk home.

The distance between where I was and where I had to go was about 4 miles. And that was in more or less a straight line. That route also included me walking through 4 seperate Loyalist areas in order to get to my own area, which was predominantely Loyalist.
I chose to walk a roundabout way, walking towards the motorway and keeping to the shadows until I found the railway line, which in time would lead me to the back door of my home. A round trip of 15 miles.
I had barely started on my journey home when a black Ford Granada passed me at low speed. I smelt trouble immediately, but I kept walking.
The car turned and the opaque passenger side window opened. It was a police car. And the occupants seemed to be having a right old night of it driving around. The officer at the passenger side held up a bottle of Smirnoff Blue Label vodka, 96% proof, and normally only seen in Duty Free shops, and offered me a drink.
I thanked him politely, but refused saying that I was eager to get home. He asked me where I lived. I told him. I had a RIGHT address anyway.
The trouble started when he asked me for my driving license. He said to his driver, a Sergeant, "We've got another one Sarge"
Well "Sarge" got out and as quick as you'd like brought out a very longnose Magnum and shoved it into my mouth.

He then pulled the trigger. It jammed. I started to struggle. He pulled it again, didn't work neither. This time I grabbed him where all policeman, or other man for that matter, hates to be grabbed. I grabbed my chance, and RAN.
I ran like there was no tommorrow., for I realised then that there very well could not be a tommorrow unless I kept my wits about me

At some stage I stopped when I thought I was far away enough from danger that I could look round a bit to get my bearings. As I did, I could see this drunken cop raise his gun, very unsteadily, and fire.
Before I realised what had happened, I was on the floor. Some great force had knocked me down, and I was feeling a little trippy all of a sudden.
I looked at my left shoulder, for that was where the numbness seemed to start. I realised that I was essentially carrying my right arm with my left. Mty shoulder was smashed, and my right arm was hanging on a little tissue and skin.
All of a sudden I got a desire to just lay down on the ground. It was nice and cool there, and the colours were beautiful. In the back of my consciousness I could hear a car door close.

I didn't want to leave this nice place, but I thought that this was only make-believe, and that Home was up the street, and that car has bad men in it, and really I should go and be sick at home.

There was a building yard, I remember, with lots and lots of those big circular pipes that they fix the water systems with. There were hundreds of these things. I found one, and I lay down.
The policemen had seen me half-running into this place and were close behind. But their headlights didn't catch me as I found my hiding place.
For 5 hours I sat, lay bled wondered if I would live this night, and all the time these policeman wandered around the building site; sober reinforcements arrived, who after a while said that I was probably long gone.
I staggered in to a friend's garden shed, and some hours after that, when he got up, he sewed my shoulder up. And although not a surgeon, he did a pretty good job.

Whatever about the IRA being used to be an honourable organisation, waht does that incident say about a country's Police Force, and the need for it's reformation.

I might add to the above by saying I was never a 'member' of any organisation; there were no arrest warrants out against me neither. Just a Catholic walking home from his girlfriend's flat - and I thank whoever needs to be thanked here for the fact that not one drop of alcohol passed my lips that night.
If I had have been even a little tipsy, I don't think I would have survived it.

We all have our stories, above Guest. The trick is to go forward from it.