In

Doesn't matter what my name is. Certain types of men do certain types of things. Like join a terrorist group coz they believe they're right. I've been inside with them. Tasted real fear of being shanked. Lose your eyes boy? Or in the back, sharpened toothbrush style. Hell, for you son, a cut throat razor. I saw all the top bananas and knew their crimes/sins. And yes, some really did believe in their revolutionary struggle. I saw, I was there. Walking thru the locker room, I never watched my back as much, tasted real terror. Like lead. I was in the prison transfer van when it was hijacked and we fled outside, Belfast. Running thru streets, past people, a bloody tourist with camera and walkman! No pic of me mate! I stop him and we row, struggle. Scratch his toys. Won't hurt him, more time inside, he's not my enemy. Who is? You? Brave man seeing NI and war. I think back to being in the van, wondering where to flee. Live off the land on a hill, field, abandoned ship or house? Time to go. I'm in this all the way, escaped terrorist prisoner. I’m a special case; you see I’m both Royalist and Loyalist. Will they save me or hunt me? Or will the RUC get me?