I was bloodied and barefoot after police mistook me for an armed robber - why I say thanks

After years of studying, travelling and drifting between jobs, I finally started work as a trainee lawyer on Monday, August 15, 2005.

The first day in the office went well. That evening, full of pride, I drove to Manchester Piccadilly Station to collect my girlfriend - now my wife. I parked opposite the station, close to the taxi rank. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, I hardly looked the part of a lawyer.

Eager to be on time, I jogged across the road towards the station entrance. As I did, a car pulled up and a large man stepped out. Instead of heading for the station doors, he came straight at me. As a wily Mancunian, I instantly sensed trouble.

As our paths crossed, he slammed me to the ground and shoved his fist in my face. It was like a scene from a film. "You're under arrest," he said.

Stunned, heart racing, I gasped: "What for? Where's your ID? Where's your ID?"

He gave no answer.

"I'm going to put you in a van," he told me. Menacingly, he kept scanning up and down the street.

I drew the only conclusion possible: I was being kidnapped. I offered him my wallet, phone, car keys - anything - but he refused. My fear grew.

'Barefoot and bloodied'

I had no choice but to fight. Somehow, I managed to wrestle him off me, losing my shoes, wallet, phone, keys and chain in the struggle. Barefoot and bloodied, I bolted down the street shouting: "Help! Call the police!" But Manchester on a Monday night at 11pm was empty.

I darted under a long bridge and hid in a dark recess. When it seemed clear, I ran again until I found two Royal Mail workers cleaning vans. Out of breath, barefoot and covered in blood, I begged them to call the police. They did.

Almost immediately, two officers in an unmarked car arrived. After I checked their ID, I told them my story. They agreed it looked like a potential kidnapping. They radioed headquarters and took me back towards the scene to search for my attacker.

Attacker found

Soon, we encountered a marked patrol car. Inside were two officers who had just detained a man in his twenties - similar build to me. Nearby was my girlfriend. The officers spoke with their colleagues and then told me the shocking truth. There had been an armed robbery at a local Sainsbury's and the man who had attacked me was an off-duty British Transport Police officer. He had mistaken me for the robber.

By midnight, my family had arrived to collect my girlfriend. I demanded that the officer return to explain himself. He had gone home - despite leaving me bloodied, shoeless and without belongings. When he came back, in front of his commanding officer, he insisted he had acted to help colleagues. When I asked why he had refused to show his ID, he denied I had even requested it. Why else, I argued, would I have tried to hand him my possessions?

Work the next day

The next morning - my second day as a lawyer - I turned up bruised, dazed and exhausted. I don't think anyone at the firm believed a word of it.

You might expect me to sue after such an ordeal, but I didn't. My injuries healed in a few weeks. Instead, I phoned a senior British Transport Police officer, who apologised unreservedly. I decided to leave it there. After all, the man who assaulted me thought I was armed. That took courage, even if he was completely wrong.

Yet mentally, I wasn't the same. For the next two years, living just five minutes from Piccadilly Station, I grew increasingly claustrophobic. Indoors, I was fine. Outside, I felt anxious and suffocated, always fearful of nothing in particular.

One weekend alone in my flat, I spiralled. I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably - something I had never done before or since. I knew then I had to act.

I couldn't let myself be broken

Ashamed, I sought help in secret. As a lawyer, my mind was my tool - I couldn't allow it to be broken. My GP referred me to a private Consultant Psychologist. I withdrew cash to pay, not wanting the payment to appear on my statement.

The session was expensive but vital. I don't remember much of it, except the diagnosis of anxiety - possibly PTSD. I believe it was my first experience of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. Afterwards, I felt almost rewired.

Looking back, I see how the attack shaped my choices. I finished my legal training in Manchester, but rejected offers to stay. I moved to Harrogate - a spa town with little crime. I still love Manchester, but I knew I had to leave.

Life changed - for the better

Years later, I found myself specialising in assault-at-work claims. Though my own experience wasn't workplace-related, I could empathise deeply with clients. I represented nurses attacked by patients, guards caught in robberies, carers assaulted by residents, teaching assistants struck by pupils and social workers abused by parents.

The greatest injuries were psychological, not physical. I understood that. My own trauma gave me an edge - and the confidence to set up my own law firm, Truth Legal, dedicated to assault claims.

Over time, I came to admire my clients' bravery. They spoke openly of their struggles and pursued claims not for money, but to protect others by forcing change.

That police officer, unknowingly, became the midwife to my career. His assault transformed my life. Thanks to him, I have helped hundreds of victims of violence.

Thanks, mate.