the troubles

The Troubles

Warning: this piece contains strong language

It was a damp night in Belfast in February (or was it March?) of 1972 that I didn’t kill someone and I wasn’t put on trial for murder...perhaps I should explain?

It’s funny what you think about in moments of fear and confusion, about the odd chain of events that have led me to crouch down, making myself as small as possible and hopelessly trying to push myself back into the unyielding hedge beside the footpath while I watch death rolling slowly down the hill towards me. Damn these street lights.

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