Blue Lights Dark Mind

Prologue - The Silence After the Scene

The first thing that hits you isn’t the blood or the violence — it’s the silence. The silence of the reality that you are standing in a crime scene, a place where only a few hours before, a violent attack had left a victim dead, and now, crime scene investigators, donned in white suits and masks, stand trying to figure out what had happened.

The television was still playing in the background, the plate of half-eaten food on the table, the pots in the sink waiting to be washed, a life that not so long ago was normal, but had been interrupted and changed in a few moments, bringing to an end that normality and starting a chain of events that would change so many lives —including my own.

As I stood there, taking in what was around me, looking for evidence, clues, and signs, I felt the weight of the responsibility on my shoulders. I was the Crime Scene Manager—I was coordinating this crime scene and the scene of crimes officers in it; I was liaising with the Senior Investigating Officer and had the media outside watching me. I remember the attempt to make some normality of the situation, but it was perversely entwined with the horror. I looked in one direction and saw a home with pictures and ornaments. However, in the turn of a head, I could see violence, a victim lying face down in their own blood.

I had been in the police service for over ten years, had seen a lot, and had even served in Iraq during Gulf War Two, but never in my life had I experienced pressure like I did at that moment. The feelings were so vivid—I was right there in the thick of it—but in reality, I wasn’t:

It was now over thirteen years later, and I wasn’t there, though my senses told me otherwise. A vivid memory was governing my mind and thoughts as I recalled the trauma. Even now, I just have to close my eyes—and I’m back there. The smell, the silence, the blood. That’s PTSD for you. It doesn’t knock. It just walks in. One of many triggers I now had and lived with daily. I was trying to learn tactics to help me forget this—and the many other traumas I had seen.

It had been a long road, lots of counselling and therapy, lots of talking to specialists, lots of down points—and as I stood on the stage, ready to walk on, I looked through a gap in the curtain to see how many people were there. I couldn’t quite see them all, but at a guess, I would say a hundred. I wondered why they wanted to hear me. I had to remind myself that I wasn’t a follow-up speaker, nor was I the warm-up. It was me and me alone.

Everyone in that audience was there to hear my story—the story of how an underprivileged lad from a low income family, who had always struggled at school and for his early life, somehow managed to find himself with experiences ranging from a firefight in Iraq, to working in Counter Terrorism Policing and then as a Crime Scene Manager, to leading major and critical incidents as a Senior Police Officer before losing it all to the demons of mental health.

I thought back to the jobs I had done, from vehicle pursuits that ended up with rolled cars, to snaring a paedophile who wanted to abuse a three-year-old girl, and even meeting The Queen, twice! I wondered at what level I should pitch the talk. Would I be detailed about the violence of the crime scenes I had managed, or would I tone it down a bit? When I talked, I generally scanned the room to see who was who and then adjusted from there. I wasn’t nervous—I never did get nervous when speaking. I spoke up because too many men stay silent. If my story helps just one of them break that silence, it’s worth every word.

I looked at where I was now—no longer a Police Officer. Betrayed by the job to which I had given nearly thirty years. How I was a different person from what I was only ten years ago, and the complete change in my life. I wondered if, at the end, I would get the typical questions, “How many dead bodies have you seen?” (I still didn’t really know the answer. I never counted, but certainly over forty.) “What’s the most violent death you have seen?”, “Have you ever been assaulted?” (Find me a Police Officer who hasn’t been assaulted.) And, “Would you recommend police as a job?”

The last one was always a difficult one for me—Policing was my calling—and I was proud of how I was as a leader. My team knew I had their backs because I never forgot what it was like to feel unseen.

I supported my staff, and they told me so. I was aspirational and wanted to keep climbing the career ladder, but the toxicity of policing became too much. The demands on officers had got out of hand, and the executive did nothing to support us. Line managers in policing had absolutely no experience in identifying the signs of poor mental health—looking back, I had many, yet not once was I asked if I was OK after seeing trauma. Not once.

This is why, as a leader, I always asked my staff how they were—always checked in, spoke openly about my own struggles to my staff. We’re all human, and mental health affects us all. It’s a pity I was never afforded the same leadership.

This book wasn’t in my plans. But when my mental health broke, I realised my silence was part of the problem. I was diagnosed with PTSD, and I found that my triggers were avoidable and could have had a different ending.

This isn’t a tale of medals or glory. This is the story of what happens when the trauma of a lifetime finally breaks through the body’s armour. When the horrors I witnessed replay like a film reel you can’t turn off.

It’s about how I got lost—and what it took to find myself again.

Chapter 1 - The Early Days

I remember the day we moved into our new house—I must have been about four years old. My older sister, Vicky, and I were outside, while our parents and grandparents walked around what I thought at the time was a huge house. In reality, it was a newly built three-storey council townhouse on the edge of Dundee, a city already feeling the decline of its once-thriving industrial identity.

My bedroom was on the top floor, with Vicky’s at the opposite end of the hallway. It felt like an adventure. The estate was full of other young families, and wherever I looked as I grew up, there were kids to play with, friends on every corner, and neighbours who knew each other by name.

I still vividly remember my first day at school. Mrs Brown was my teacher. At some point, she leaned over to me and another boy, also called Ryan with a “Mac” surname, and said she’d need to give us bigger stickers so she could tell us apart. I went to St Peter and Paul’s, a Catholic school only a five-minute walk from home. It was a beautiful old building—likely from the early 1900s—with worn stone steps and high windows that gave it a timeless feel.

Vicky had started at a nearby Protestant school but moved at some point, and I joined her at the Catholic school. I didn’t think much of the change, but my mum’s dad—my grandad—wasn’t too impressed. Though my granny was Catholic, both of my parents had been raised Protestant, and my grandad didn’t shy away from voicing his views. He’d jokingly call the chapel “the Pineapple” and would wind us up after First Holy Communion or Confirmation by asking, “How’s the Pineapple these days?”

He was an imposing figure—always a gentleman with us, but the stories from his younger days painted a tougher image. In Dundee, he was known for talking with his fists, and that reputation followed him. My mum and her brothers grew up with a certain fear of him, and even as adults, he still carried influence over them.

I mention this because it mattered. My parents listened to him—about where to live, how to raise us, and what areas to avoid. They respected his opinion, maybe even feared it a little. My uncle, though, didn’t follow that advice. He chose a different area of the city and carved out his own path. Sadly, that decision came with consequences—two of my cousins went down a very different road than we did.

When my mum was pregnant with me, she was unknowingly exposed to someone in the early stages of measles. As a result, I was born with what you’d probably call today a disability. I had growth deficiencies in my neck and a pronounced squint in one of my eyes. Between the ages of two and fourteen, I underwent more than half a dozen operations. For a while, I had to wear an eye patch to try to correct the squint, which affected my balance and, unsurprisingly, made me a target for playground comments and bullying. The patch didn’t last forever—but the memories did.

Primary school was mostly positive. I enjoyed it, especially being around my friends, but I still carry a few scars—not from classmates, but from teachers. My Primary 6 and 7 teacher had a habit of making pupils stand up and solve maths problems before the class. Doing sums out loud was one thing but being forced to stand while doing it was even more intimidating. I was never good under pressure at that age. I vividly remember the teacher launching the blackboard rubber at me more than once for not knowing the answer. His bullying was notorious, but back in the late ’80s and early ’90s, teachers had far more leeway than they do today.

By Primary 7, I’d had two more eye surgeries and was stuck with a pair of horrendous NHS glasses—thick lenses with odd-looking prisms. I became increasingly self-conscious about my appearance. I wasn’t academic. I liked the school setting, the structure, and its social side, but the actual learning didn’t interest me much. One of my proudest moments from that time wasn’t academic at all—it was winning a school competition to make a Christmas decoration from recycled materials. The prize was having your decoration displayed at the City Library, complete with your name and school.

I still laugh when I think about it because I’d completely forgotten about the homework until late on Sunday night. I remember sitting in my pyjamas after watching That’s Life with Esther Rantzen, sheepishly telling my mum and dad about the competition. I was told to go to bed—it was too late. But when I awoke the next morning, I found a handmade decoration waiting in the living room: a wire coat hanger, two empty ice cream tubs, and a load of random rubbish had been transformed into something festive.

My parents had stayed up and made it for me. So, when I stood proudly in the library looking at the tag—Ryan MacDonald, Age 11, SS Peter and Paul Primary School—I couldn’t help but think it should’ve read: Ruth and Alex, Ages 33 and 31, Hilltown, Dundee. I secretly think it was one of my mum’s proudest moments.

Looking back, we never had much. Back then, there wasn’t any official deprivation index, no talk of child poverty statistics—but it was obvious we weren’t well off. My sister Vicky and I had been joined by a new addition, our younger sister Shelley, five years younger than me and seven years Vicky’s junior. Despite the lack of space, I got to keep my own room as the only boy—Vicky and Shelley had to share. That always made me smile. They didn’t get on well; the age gap was too big. I used to lie in bed listening to their bickering and count my blessings that I had a door I could close.

Our dad was an intelligent man—quiet, reserved, but sharp as anything. He had a natural talent for maths and a practical kind of common sense that most people only wish they had. But he never reached his full potential. Instead, he spent twelve-hour shifts working in a rubber factory, walking over forty-five minutes each way, rain or shine. Neither he nor my mum drove; driving lessons weren’t something they could afford.

I still recall the rubbery smell clinging to his clothes when he came in from work. It might sound strange, but that smell comforts me even now. I’d give anything to smell it just one more time.

We didn’t know until later years how different life could have been for him—and for us all. He’d once been offered a commission in the Royal Air Force. His dream was to become a helicopter pilot, but my mum didn’t want to leave Dundee, and he turned it down. Years later, his cousin invited him to start a new life in Australia. Another fresh opportunity—but again, my mum wasn’t keen, so he stayed. He was a husband and a father, and he made the choice he believed was right for his family at the time. But I know my mum later regretted not taking the chance—especially when his cousin returned to visit, full of stories about his life under the sun in Oz.

Mum worked hard too. She had many jobs over the years—care homes, the local Spar, delivering Yellow Pages. She and my dad were grafters. They weren’t unemployed a day in their lives until Dad was forced to take early retirement at forty-six due to a back injury and a bleeding stomach ulcer. The work ethic in our house was strong—it had to be.

Still, we never had much. Every summer holiday, I’d sit around our housing scheme as one by one my pals disappeared on family holidays—usually somewhere sunny and exciting. We had just two holidays in my whole childhood: one to a caravan site in Berwick-upon-Tweed, where the uncles and cousins all came along, and one to Turkey when I was fifteen with Mum, Dad, and Shelley. Vicky, by then, was too cool to come.

We knew money was tight, but we made our own fun. We played manhunt around the estate, rode our bikes for miles, built dens up Law Hill—the old volcano Dundee’s built around, and from which I was lucky enough to live just a few hundred metres. We were out in all weathers, a proper gang of pals. I remember the street parties too, when the road would be closed off and all the parents came together with tables, music, and food. One was for Charles and Diana’s wedding. Another, I think, was for Andrew and Fergie. The occasions don’t matter as much now—but the memories are still crystal clear.

We weren’t blind to the struggles. I remember the debt letters, my mum hiding them before Dad got home. I remember the Provident loan woman coming to the door each week, and me being sent to say Mum was out, or to hand her £5 with the line, “That’s all we’ve got this week.” But here’s the strange thing—I never really felt like I was going without.

Christmases and birthdays were always full of presents. One year, I asked for a racing bike. On Christmas morning, there it was. It was obviously second-hand, but I didn’t care. I loved it. I remember riding over to meet a friend—his dad was a well-off doctor, and he had the latest Hi-Tec racer. He looked at my bike and clearly wasn’t impressed. But I didn’t care. I got what I asked for—and as it turned out, mine was faster than his anyway.

My sister was obsessed with branded clothes, like most teenagers were back then. Shell suits, Doc Marten boots, Sweater Shop jumpers—you name it, she had it. We didn’t have much to live on, but somehow, my parents made sure she never went without. Looking back, I still don’t know how they managed it. But we had what we needed, even if it meant sacrifices, which they never spoke about.

There was a running joke in our scheme: because my dad left at 6 a.m. and didn’t get home until after 6 p.m.—and because he mostly kept to himself during the rare hours he was around—some neighbours thought my mum was a single parent. That all changed one summer when I was about thirteen.

We were out playing manhunt, and someone had the genius idea to ask the parents to join in. About six of them agreed. My sisters and I decided to take a chance and ask our dad. We fully expected him to say no. But to our surprise, he got up, laced his trainers, and came out. Not only did he play—he played. He was all in, darting through gardens and round corners like it was a military operation. He was brilliant. It ended up being one of the best days of my childhood.

People were stunned. “Who’s that?” someone asked.

“That’s Vicky, Ryan, and Shelley’s dad,” came the reply.

“Really? I thought they didn’t have a dad!”

We didn’t care. He was there, he was playing with us, and it was awesome.

Even though he was quiet, my dad was fiercely protective. I was about fourteen when my mate Adam—who, bizarrely, would go on to teach my own kids at high school years later—and I were out skateboarding down a hill near some houses. One of the residents came out and told us to move along, but we didn’t. After a couple more runs, another man stormed out, grabbed me by the T-shirt, and demanded I apologise. I refused. Stephen ran back to my house, shot upstairs, and said:

“Some man is trying to pull Ryan into his house in Shelley Gardens!”

Dad didn’t say a word. He just got up and bolted out the door—in his slippers. Adam also told his dad, Brian, who jumped in the car to follow. I was still being manhandled when I looked up and saw my dad running towards me, eyes locked on this man, face like thunder, and still wearing his checked slippers. At the same moment, Brian’s little green car overtook him and screeched to a halt. Just as my dad arrived, Brian jumped out and managed to intercept him before he could land a punch. The man promptly let go of me. What followed was a screaming match, with Brian trying to play referee between two very angry dads.

That story travelled fast, and I lived off my dad’s “hardness” for a long time after that.

Our parents hosted New Year’s Eve parties almost every year. The house would be full of aunts, uncles, cousins, and neighbours. We had a brilliant time—left to our own devices, running wild in the streets, eating whatever we wanted, and sneaking the odd drink. These parties were always reciprocated during the year, usually at my mum’s brother’s house.

My cousin Danny, about fifteen at the time, would always put on a show. He’d dress up as Doris Day, perch on the arm of a chair like it was a horse and sing Whip Crack Away with complete commitment. Those memories make me smile—but they also carry sadness.

Danny eventually drifted into crime. He got involved in drugs, stolen cars, and more. I remember him coming to our house, flogging stolen gear, even taking Christmas orders from our neighbours. If I’m honest, I suspect more than a few of our own presents came from less-than-legitimate sources.

Danny died of a drug overdose in his early thirties. Tragic, of course, even more so because if he had chosen a different path, I’m convinced we would have had a great relationship as adults.

That’s when I started to really understand the impact of where—and how—you’re brought up. Danny and I weren’t so different. Same family. Same background. But our lives went very different ways. That could have been me.

High school wasn’t much fun for me. I never really felt I belonged there. By then, I’d drifted away from most of my friends from primary school and was always put in the lower-level classes. My primary school report cards had already flagged it—comments like “Ryan seems uninterested” or “Ryan spends a lot of time daydreaming.” Not much changed in secondary.

I wasn’t a disruptive kid. I think I tried—at least in the early years—but I didn’t pass any of my exams. Studying just didn’t work for me. I couldn’t retain the information, no matter how much I tried. I actually liked a couple of subjects—History and Modern Studies, especially—but even then, I couldn’t turn that interest into exam results. My dad would try to encourage me to revise, but I think we both knew it wasn’t working.

I tried all sorts of clubs—karate, scouts, cadets—but I never lasted more than a few weeks. At the time, I didn’t know why I kept losing interest so quickly. I’d feel excited about something new, then lose all motivation just as fast. I didn’t realise it back then, but those traits—struggling to focus, bouncing between interests—would make much more sense later in life.

It’s hard to describe the scheme I grew up in—not because it was rough or broken, but because I have nothing bad to say about it. My childhood was brilliant. I was always out playing with friends—Kevin, Ross, Stephen, Nicola—just a few of the many familiar faces who made those days so special. Most of us were around the same age, and we stuck together. We’d cycle in circles for hours, play manhunt or kirby in the streets, or catch bees in jars like it was the most important job in the world.

We spent endless hours up the Law Hill, building dens, scrambling to the top for the panoramic view of the city stretching across the river to Fife. As we got older, it became the spot where we’d sneak a carry-out, hiding from the world and pretending we were older than we were.

One afternoon, I was at home when Ross came hammering on the door like the place was on fire. “There’s a body on the Law,” he shouted, out of breath. “Police everywhere. Hurry up!”

Before I could ask anything, he was gone.

I grabbed my trainers and ran the short distance around the block to the foot of the hill. And there it was—police tape flapping in the wind, cordoning off the same stretch of land we had spent years playing on and claiming as our own. The officers weren’t saying much, but we hung around long enough to overhear what we needed. Arms and legs had been found in a bag.

We couldn’t believe it. But it was true. A man had been murdered, dismembered, and his remains dumped at various sites across the city. One of those bags—one of those horrific discoveries—had been left just metres from our den, hidden behind a fallen tree we used to sit on while sipping cheap cider and feeling invincible.

They said the bag had been there for weeks. That thought chilled me. The man’s head was never recovered, but the person responsible was caught and sentenced to life in prison.

I remember the scene vividly: the swarm of police activity, officers in white suits combing the ground, dogs sniffing through the undergrowth, TV cameras lining the streets. And me—just a kid—watching it all in awe. I had no idea then that, less than ten years later, I’d be standing on the other side of that tape.

What I did enjoy was the idea of working and earning my own money. I started small—selling eggs door-to-door in the neighbourhood. I’d take orders during the week, get them delivered from a farm, then head out delivering. Soon, people were asking if I could bring bread and milk too, so I added them to the list. I like to think I was the first local grocery delivery service before it became trendy.

I also got a Sunday job in a furniture store selling beds. I earned £22 a shift and £1 for every bed I sold. It wasn’t a fortune, but none of my mates were earning money, and it felt good to be able to buy Christmas and birthday presents for my family from my own wages.

One Sunday, a couple came into the shop—probably in their early thirties. I approached them and helped with the sale. They knew what they wanted, paid their deposit, and left. A week later, I was out doing deliveries with Stan, the driver. We headed to Carnoustie to deliver their bed. The house was lovely—big, but that wasn’t unusual for Carnoustie.

We carried the bed in, set it up, and as usual, I had a quick lie down to test the comfort. Nice bed. On the way out, I noticed some photos on the wall and did a double-take. The woman signing the delivery form—she looked familiar. I stared at the pictures again and realised who she was.

It was Liz McColgan—Dundee’s own Olympic long-distance runner. She’d won silver in Seoul in 1988. I couldn’t believe it. I asked her if I could see her medal. She smiled, said yes, and we ended up chatting for about half an hour about her career, her training, and her life. For years afterward, my claim to fame was I’ve been in Liz McColgan’s bed!

When I was about fifteen, my guidance teacher mentioned a college programme that gave kids experience in different trades—plumbing, bricklaying, joinery, that sort of thing. It sounded better than school, so I gave it a go. I lasted about six months. I didn’t love the hands-on stuff, but it wasn’t school, so I stuck with it. At the end of the course, I was offered the chance to leave school and start an apprenticeship. That sounded like a good idea.

A few weeks later, I reported to the Construction Industry Board office in Dundee to learn which trade I’d be placed in. I’d listed joiner, electrician, and brickie as my top three choices. I sat in the waiting room with about six other lads. At one point, I nipped to the toilet. While I was away, they called my name. Someone else was taken in instead, and when I came out, they called me next.

When I met the advisor, he said, “You’ve been assigned a flat roofing apprenticeship.”

I had no idea what that even was.

I asked about my preferences, but he said, “You missed your turn. Roofing was next on the list.”

I didn’t have much choice. I needed a job, so I took it. I started in early January, just after my seventeenth birthday.

Around that time, my dad and I were taking driving lessons with the same instructor. He’d have his lesson after work, get dropped near the house, and I’d meet them to take mine. He passed first; I passed a few months later. I wanted a car badly—my own bit of freedom. That kept me stuck in the roofing job even when I knew it wasn’t for me. I didn’t get on with my tutor, and the job just didn’t feel right. Eventually, we both agreed it was time for me to move on.

I hadn’t been unemployed since I was thirteen. It hit hard—and it meant I had to make a decision, and quickly. I just didn’t yet know what that decision would be.

Chapter 2 - Uniform at Seventeen

I had just finished with the roofing firm when my sisters and I decided to head out to get a Mother’s Day gift for Mum. As we passed the Armed Forces Careers Office in town, my sister Vicky nudged me and said, “Why don’t you go in and see what they’ve got?” I shrugged. I remembered my dad had once dreamed of joining the Air Force, so I thought, why not? What have I got to lose?

We walked in, and I was met by an RAF recruiter who invited me to sit down. I told him I was curious about a career in the forces—not exactly sold on the idea yet, but open. He talked me through the process: an aptitude test, a medical, then a final interview. It sounded surprisingly straightforward.

I took home a handful of glossy flyers with job descriptions—everything from aircraft technician to air traffic control. A few jumped out at me: photographer, electrician, and RAF Police. But there was a catch—I wasn’t old enough to join the police yet. You had to be eighteen and a half.

I went back and sat the aptitude test anyway. My scores were high enough for the RAF Police, but they weren’t recruiting at the time. The recruiter gave me an option: join now in another trade—catering—and re-muster into the police when I hit the right age. That sounded fair enough to me. I was in.

Then came the medical.

I wasn’t worried—I was young, fit, and didn’t smoke. So, when they told me I was underweight, I was stunned. I didn’t even know that was a thing. I needed to put on a stone—about fourteen pounds—and I had three months to do it. Mum bought me the vilest weight-gain powder imaginable. Twice a day for weeks, I choked it down. But when I went back, I was still too light.

They gave me one final chance—four more weeks. If I failed again, that was it.

Determined, I hit the weights, ate like a machine, and kept drinking the dreaded powder. But as the final medical...