Nigel - A Damaged Boy

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Nigel A damaged boy

Written in the style of an autobiography All names of characters and locations are fictional Based on memories that are not necessarily in the original order of events

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Dedicated to my wife, my children, my family, my ‘in-care’ siblings, and the friends that I have managed to gather over 50 years of life.

Published by www.clickaread.com Copyright © clickaread.com 2008 Nigel King asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library ISBN (Pending application) All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author or publishers

Proofread by Steven Meredith

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Prologue As I set out to write this book, in the late afternoon of my 42nd birthday, I am sitting at my personal computer in my bedroom, my concentration battling with the sound of drums emerging from the room next door. My son David is going through his daily half-hour drum practice routines. The noise deafens me each time the heavy thud of his bass drum pedal thunders through the thin walls, and I feel the vibrations through my shoes. It may be surprising to you that I am actually pleased to endure this deafening experience, no matter how loud it becomes I am pleased because he is a normal boy with a normal life, whereas I am a damaged boy, with an extraordinary life. Apart from the drumming, his other passion is the Royal Navy. He is about to apply to enter service at the end of this year and he knows exactly what he wants from life and how to achieve it. I am very proud of him and I will miss him immensely when he finally flees the nest. At his age, which is just sixteen, I was completely screwed-up and was already playing at being a husband to a twenty seven yearold woman named Pamela, and a dad to her two children Gordon & Teresa. The contrast between David’s life and mine is remarkable.

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I am researching and writing this book primarily for myself because a psychotherapist has recommended that the process will be good therapy.

I have never attempted to write a book before,

although I have always believed that I had one in me, just waiting to be written. Until now I have never been too sure that I should write it. With the ongoing encouragement of my closest friend Andy, and my wife Jane, I have decided that I will tell the truth about my life, even when it hurts me to do so, and even if the truth makes me vulnerable to other people’s judgment. I have promised myself to be accurate and fully descriptive in the recalling, recording and communicating of the pain, loneliness, guilt and despair that I remember suffering. The strong emotion that I carry inside is sometimes like a heavy weight in my heart and it has surely been in there for too many years.

Although I am primarily writing this autobiography for myself, I know others will want to read it. I must warn you that I will sometimes use strong language in the dialogue and will include vivid descriptions of sexual, emotional and physical abuse. I make no apologies, as I believe this method of writing is necessary in describing certain situations and feelings. My story will introduce you to a world of sexual deviancies and child molestation that you may know exist but have never been exposed to. My story may make you cry when you share my recalled experiences of being an abused and abandoned child and also a desperately lonely and confused 5

adult. My life, whilst at times unbearable, is real and you will read about real life in this book.

As a child I was sexually, physically and emotionally abused. As an adult I have had sex with too many partners to remember. I have created and owned dating agencies, wife swapping clubs and sex Chatlines. I have known what it is to live a ‘wealthy’ existence, and what it is like to live in abject poverty.

I have experienced religion, drug abuse and violence first hand. I once found healing and hope through believing in Jesus Christ. I have since found peace through being honest about a new-found atheistic viewpoint. In my teenage years I slept in open fields whilst on the run from the police. At just thirteen years of age I was selling and using drugs. At eighteen I seriously planned to kill myself and my abuser. I have experienced the pain and unhappiness of divorce; my parents, my own, and now my children’s also.

I have earned money doing one of the most dangerous jobs at sea, working as a deep-sea trawler man, sailing from Fleetlea during the years of the so-called “cod wars” with Iceland. I have also earned easy money from running premium rate sex Chatlines. I have faced judges due to drink driving, bad debts and business liquidations. I have kept company with homosexuals, transvestites, lesbians and bisexuals. I have associated with thieves, prostitutes, hells angels, 6

paedophiles and heroin addicts. I have had too many jobs to remember, including one as Pastor of a Pentecostal Church. I have also burgled houses to steal food and furniture for my family.

My life has been many things, but it has never been boring.

If you are a Christian or religious believer, or if you have strong moral views in anyway, I can only explain to you that the purpose of writing this account of my life, in such a graphic way, is not to shock or corrupt you as a reader, but to help purge the memories and confusions from within me, as a writer of my own story, telling it as I recall it, without pulling any punches. I am confident that this book will be published. I believe it will help others who have had similar experiences, and also those who live with, love, or work with abuse victims of any sort. However, I am writing this book primarily to help me.

Please do not continue to read it if you think you will find the language, subject matter or my open style of writing to be shocking, too sexually graphic, or upsetting in anyway. If you are an abuser, then please read-on and then go and get some help. If you are a victim of abuse, and have not dealt with it, please tell someone who you trust and start your own journey of healing. I have a website that may help you; www.brynalyn.co.uk.

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My story will begin with happy memories from 1959. It will then take you on a snapshot journey through many years of my life and it will end with an overview of my life at the time of completing this book.

I currently live in the beautiful Epsom Valley, in the North of England. I am now able to enjoy each day without nightmares, anger, guilt or confusion. The journey of healing has been painful for me, and I suspect that our new relationship, me as the author and you as the reader, will challenge us both as pages turn and we experience together my dark nights of abuse, times of isolation and feelings of deep despair, rejection and bouts of manic depression that became cancerous to my human spirit, and very debilitating.

Today I am still learning to parent the child within me, a child that was a victim of terrible circumstances, one who was neglected and abused by legal guardians. This child is now healing and the process of writing this book will act as a catalyst to lessen the distance between anger and peace, lies and truth, pain and hurt, guilt and forgiveness. Today, I have stopped making complicated plans of revenge and I have learned how to take each day as it comes and to live my life without the burden of the past.

My son David is very fortunate to have experienced the childhood he has, even though he too is a product of a messy divorce. 8

My eight and two year old boys, Anthony and Tim are also fortunate to have such an extended family of brothers, grandparents and uncles. I hope, and fully expect, that they will go on experiencing a childhood of love and security. They are the benchmark in my history that bears witness to the cessation of the cycle of abuse.

My two adult sons, Kevin and Nathan, who currently live in Portugal, are not so fortunate. They are second-generation victims of my unusual and disturbed childhood. I have learned that the abuse I suffered as a child caused my dysfunctional lifestyle as an adult, and it clearly caused my inability to parent them properly. When I was their age I was in the middle of my second divorce and I was running away from myself. I can only hope that they will read my book, as I believe it will go some way towards helping them understand their past and also help them to overcome the dysfunctional life they inherited from me.

I love all my children very much and feel very privileged to be their Dad and to be witnessing them progressing through life. I must also mention Gordon, my stepson. He suffered first hand at my inability to be a parent to him. Despite his negative experiences as a child, both with me and with both of his natural parents, he has proved to be a good man and a very good dad to his son. I must also mention my step-daughter Teresa. She has also suffered. Her life, the

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last time I heard about it, was awash with drugs, violence, abuse and abandonment.

My mother will probably never want to read this book, although I really would like her to do so. Whenever I have mentioned to her in the past that I am writing an autobiographical story, she has avoided further discussion about it. My brothers and sisters; Mike, Natalie, Noel, Ray, Celia and Joan, none of whom share the same parents as me, and some of which have never even met each other, probably will read it if I send them a copy. My father has agreed to read it prior to publication and to help me correct any dates or recollections that have become obscured from the period after he met my mother and from my early years as a toddler.

Some of the people who read this book will identify with the things I mention and I guess one or two will lie awake at night after reading it, feeling guilty or perplexed by the content. The two people, more than any others, who should read this are Mr Shush, my sexual abuser, and Mr Angry who was physically abusive to me (these are obviously not their real names). Hopefully many paedophiles and child abusers will also read this book. I feel they need to know what it feels like to be at the other end of their addictions to child-sex and violence.

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I have a strong desire and deep rooted need to show my mother my story. I want other various guardians that I had as a child to see how their lives and decisions seriously affected my life and subsequently, the lives of my children, wives and partners. I want them all to read this book. I also want them to understand me and to know exactly what it is that I have quietly survived. I know that some of them feel I am to blame for negative circumstances in their own lives and I have always carried a heavy burden of feeling that I have seriously failed as a child, son, brother, partner, lover, husband, parent, and friend. I also believe that I can, through the writing of this book, give the child in me a voice to answer some of these people. I especially want the child in me to have the opportunity to shout back at those who abused me or gave up on me. I think I am free of my own anger and bitterness towards many of the adults in my childhood. Knowing that they may read this book is very satisfying. Perhaps this is my sweet revenge.

Today I am still trying to come to terms with, and also understand, a childhood of abuse, lies and confusion that eventually led me to live my bizarre and dysfunctional adult life that has been dominated with the burning desire for money, sexual fulfilment, and the control over my own life. This has been my obsession.

For now, the silence has now returned in my bedroom and I can smell the aroma of the evening meal being prepared in the 11

kitchen by my wife Jane. I feel that I am the luckiest man on earth today, despite my failings. I have a wonderful wife, great kids, and a beautiful home. The only things I lack are earplugs for tomorrows drum practice.

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Updated prologue The past nine years have flown by. My son David is now out of the Navy having spent time at war and survived. He is now working for his own company as a contractor servicing helicopters and aeroplanes. Now, another son, Anthony, is about to join the Royal Marines. He has just completed his (PRMT) Potential Royal Marine Training. Much has happened in the intervening years. I now have another son, Lawrence, and also a beautiful daughter, Annabel. They are currently aged six and five. They are like peas in pod and play together everyday. Chapter thirteen and my epilogue will bring you update.

At last I have finished the book. It’s been a long journey. I have picked it up, put it down, thrown it away, started it again, considered it, despised it, wrestled with it, and cursed it.

Nigel 2008

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Content Prologue 1

Happy Memories

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Haunting Memories

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The Hospital Affair

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The Home from Hell

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Terror in Traquay

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Running Backwards

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A Woman in a Red Dress

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Four Girls and a Baby

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Sex on the Phone, Money in the Bank

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Jesus in the Shower

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The Rise and fall of Faith

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A Born Again Atheist

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The Third Quarter of Life

Epilogue What is a bi-polar disorder?

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1 Happy Memories When I first decided to start writing this book, commencing with dialogue based on happy memories from my early childhood, I immediately faced a writer’s block and had to stop. I wrote around fifty words and then put it down for about two months. I found it very difficult to focus on any genuine, and early, happy memories. I persevered and eventually, after reading therapy information on how to find my ‘inner-child’, and practicing regular deep meditation, I recalled numerous memories that were truly happy ones. They came from storage, somewhere in the back of my mind from the year 1959, when I was nearly three years of age. Finding and reliving these memories gave me a very pleasant feeling, similar to the joy you experience when rooting through old photographs and finding a cherished family snap, taken at that moment when everyone was being very stupid. You must know the type I mean. Anyway, these happy memories brought tears to my eyes and recalling the details, and writing them down, has helped me realise that there must have been other times in my childhood when things were normal and happy, rather than abnormal and sad.

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My grandparents on my mother's side, Nana Dora and Granddad Tim, had a back garden that was small, neat and uncluttered. It had a border around three edges and the grass met on one side with a wooden trellis framework that was attached to the back wall. The house was situated on the right-hand side, at the bottom of a cul-de-sac, at the end of a row of 4 or 5 houses, fairly typical of the type built in Overpool in the 1930’s. I can recall the smell of bread being baked as my Nana went about her business in the back kitchen. My focus of concentration, as I recall, was on balancing small metal Dinky toy cars along the wooden framework of the back ground floor window.

I remember standing in the quiet garden with the sun hot on my neck and the grass having a dry sort of smell.

I can recall

watering the flowers with a small round watering can. I was happily playing by myself. Granddad was at work and I knew that my milk and biscuits would be waiting for me in the kitchen. “Tea for two!” my Nan used to shout from the kitchen, “Come on Nigel, your milk is ready!” She always placed a bright yellow china cup and saucer, filled with warm milk, next to a china plate that had three biscuits on it. “You can have four after your next birthday, if you are a good boy”, she would say, whilst tickling under my chin with the tips of her fingers. My baby chair was always set square in front of a grownup chair that served as my table with a tray on it. After finishing my biscuits and milk I would quite often sit, content and happy, in 16

Granddad Tim’s glass shed that was at the side of the house, just outside the kitchen door.

My Granddad was a watchmaker and jeweller with a business in Overpool City Centre. The smell in his garden shed was very strong. It was a pleasant smell of wood and linseed oil that emanated from the dozens of small wooden draws and compartments, each filled with watch parts, some only a few millimetres wide. Granddad Tim had carefully stacked the specially made draw units on top of each other next to his collection of carpentry tools and scraps of wood. Sometimes, at the weekend when he relaxed after Sunday dinner, he would sit in the lean-to shed, with me on his knee, and allow me to knock nails into a piece of wood and build a toy boat. I remember him as a very patient, loving and caring man who showed me unconditional love. When I look at the few photographs I have of him holding me, I see a man who looks as proud as a ‘dad’ could be. I have been told that my mother, Amelia, should have been a ‘Peter’ and that Granddad Tim loved me like a son he had never had.

I think the daily ritual of warm milk and three biscuits, after playing in the garden, was a pleasant daily event that reassured me that everything was normal and settled. My Nan could be relied upon; she was as regular as clockwork, just like my Granddad. The milk and biscuits routine quite often signified the part of the day when my Nan would draw the curtains in her posh lounge and we 17

would sit together in the shade by the window. She always let me slide down her legs and on to the round gold coloured metal coffee table where I would close my eyes and fall asleep, whilst I listened to her gently singing nursery rhymes in a low voice. My mother still has the coffee table. The room was very clean and was far too elegant for such a small room in a tiny council house in Overpool. There was a black ebony baby grand piano at one end of the room, in the bay window, and I often ended up underneath it, happy, secure and content. I remember the silence that was only broken with the purring of the cat that sat, as if listening to the singing, on a shelf next to the black ebony African figure that my Nan called Lulu. This is the earliest memory I can recall. Nana Dora was like a mum to me, and Granddad Tim was like a dad.

The cat, who was called Tom on account of him being a ‘ginger tom’, was my best friend, even if he did hiss at me whenever I wanted to play with him. The good feelings of this calm safe atmosphere are something I can easily allow my self to daydream about, and yearn for, when I think about that period of my life. I feel at peace when I remember that house and the smells of Nana’s cooking and the strength of Granddad Tim’s arms around me. I recall feeling safe whenever he came home from work and picked me up asking, “How is my big boy today?” I remember the atmosphere of the rooms in that little house in Hilder Road, and especially the images of my Nan’s collection of Toby jugs that had been carefully 18

placed on a narrow pelmet that ran around the top of the hall and landing walls. These jugs were very colourful and some were quite frightening, with funny twisted faces. Later in life, I collected Toby jugs, buying and selling them on eBay. The row of toy cars, outside the back window, in a long line from left to right and hiding the sunbubbled paintwork, is a very vivid picture in my mind. I remember my joy when Granddad Tim would come home with a new Dinky toy car as a present. I used to run outside to the windowsill and make room for it in my collection. I would then go and stand inside the house to admire it with my mouth and nose pressed up against the glass. “Watch my nets!” my Nan would always shout from the kitchen as I raced through, “I’m not boiling them again!”

It is confusing and deeply upsetting when I think of the same strong, caring, loving and tender woman screaming abuse at me, and often locking me a dark cupboard for no apparent reason, some six years later in her big guesthouse on the Southall.

Nana Dora died of various cancers when I was about 20. Apparently her brain had deteriorated over the years and she died with a lot of confusion in her mind. I saw her quietly pass away in a big oak double bed at her home in Arnold Road. She was clutching a large black handbag, stuffed full of money when she died. I later helped my mother distribute the cash between the various relatives. We found several thousand pounds in her handbag and more money 19

hidden in a row of locked wardrobes that stood in her bedroom. I got £35 from the tax free ‘booty’, which later became the subject of many arguments between my mother and her sister Anne.

I guess my Nan did not understand how wickedly she had treated me when I was a little boy in her big house, several years after Granddad had died. This same woman became known by many guests who stayed in her guesthouse, as ‘Dora hot-dinners’, and she was also sometimes affectionately called ‘Fag-ash Lil’. I remember once watching her cigarette burn down the full length to the tip, into a three-inch curve of ash, just before dropping into the pan of scouse stew that she was preparing for the workman who lodged with her. On one occasion, some of the lads staying at the guesthouse grabbed Dora, still in her curlers and slippers, and carried her to the pub over their shoulders. My Granddad Tim would not have recognized the liberated Dora that emerged with a new lease of life after his death. ‘Dora hot-dinners’ was famous, at least amongst the Wimpy and Cementation workmen that helped to build the Causeway Street flyover in Havenhead. She had a reputation for good grub and clean beds. I was once very shocked to discover my Nan in bed with one of these men. He was known as ‘Big Bad Barney from Barnsley’ and he drove a giant D8 earthmover for a living. He often took me to the Oxstone pub, in Talbot Village, when I was on home leave from the children’s home, and got me very drunk on pints of bitter. Barney loved to drink and party and looked like a gruff Buddha who never 20

shaved. On one occasion, during a get-together in my Nan’s best room, he was dancing and caused the fireplace to fall away from the wall. He could also get quite nasty when he was drunk and once, after I had been arguing with my Nan, he literally lifted me off the ground by holding me around the throat. During their relationship, he and Nana Dora travelled the UK in a Morris car, despite the fact that Barney did not have a full driving licence or any motor insurance. My mother was always busy helping with the cleaning and cooking at that time. As I recall, she also had the occasional fling with a guest. I clearly remember her entering the guest bedroom of a Welshman, known as ‘Taffy’ who lodged with them quite regularly. The door to the guest room was opposite the top box room that I used when I was home. I watched them through the gap in the door as they jumped about on the bed in the early hours. I was later taken for a meal in a posh restaurant by Taffy and my mother. I thought this was probably a treat, given to me so I would not tell my mother’s partner that she had been unfaithful while he was away. His name was Robert and would likely have given Taffy a good thumping if he had found out.

My mother, Amelia Barron, had married my dad, Daniel King, in 1955. They were young and both working in Overpool City Centre where they had met and started courting. Daniel was a salesman of 21

some sort in the Henry Lee shopping store and Amelia was working in accounts or administration in the famous Johnston’s store that was opposite the Adelaide Hotel. My mother tells me that Daniel was excited at the thought of marrying Tim Barron’s daughter. She always gave me the impression that she was important, because Granddad Tim was so well known and thought to be very rich. I imagine that Daniel was somewhat disappointed when he finally got invited to tea at the council house were they lived. Apparently Granddad did not want to buy his own house but preferred to invest his wealth in diamonds. My mother once told me that her father felt insulted when the young Daniel proudly presented the ‘cheap & nasty’ diamond chip engagement ring.

I know little about the circumstances that led to the divorce of my parent’s because I have never been told the entire story. I do however know, by way of the anger and bitterness displayed to me later, whenever I mentioned my fathers name to my Nan and mother, that whatever happened, had been very unpleasant for them all. I was just an innocent child who had been born into an existing adult fight that eventually ended in divorce, tears, anger and bitterness. My medical records show that I was admitted to hospital at the age of eighteen months with a broken collarbone. Someone, I can’t remember who it was, told me years later that my mother had dropped me on the floor and did not take me to the hospital until my father found out about it three days later. 22

The first home they shared was in Wullerton and the stories later told to me about Daniel, by my mother, range from the sublime to the ridiculous. I remember when I was around thirteen or fourteen years of age, on a rare home leave from the children’s home where I then lived, she went into great detail about how Daniel used to sleep with women behind her back and also asked her to do what she referred to as ‘disgusting things in bed’. She also claimed that he had ‘girlfriends in the house’ when she was at work and this is one of the reasons she divorced him. True or untrue, my mother, like many parents, totally ignored my right to have a relationship with my natural father, and her stories about him made it almost impossible for me to view him neutrally or fairly, years later when I met him.

Over the years, my mother seemed unaware of my embarrassment when she talked of my father and other things that I did not understand. For example, her exposition on why woman bleed every month, and how her various husbands over the years did not sexually satisfy her, only confused me and left me with a slanted look at life and relationships. Today, if my sisters, Celia or Joan read this, they will recognise the woman I am talking about since they have told me that she has continued similar debates with them. She seemed to think that discussing such issues with her children was a healthy thing to do no matter how old or embarrassed they might be. She also vented her opinions about ex-husbands with no mercy. 23

I do not know who cared for me each day in my first two years of life, whilst my parents, it seems, were mostly working. Reviewing the confusion of stories that I have been told, it is likely that they took turns throughout the day and perhaps they had a female lodger who also helped out with babysitting. I guess that my father’s mother, also named Dora, or my mother’s sister, named Anne, may have helped out on occasions too. I do know for a fact that my auntie Anne often took me to Hale Park in Wullerton for a secret meeting with my Dad. This was after he and my mother had separated.

When I left hospital as a newborn, I was wrapped in a white shawl that Dora and Tim had bought from Henry Lee’s, and I guess at that point the young Amelia and Daniel envisaged a long and happy life together with me at their side. The period from birth to age four, with the exception of my happy memories in Hilder Close, is a complete blank and remains a confusing mystery to me. I can only surmise that the young couple, Daniel and Amelia, had made the mistake of getting frisky, getting pregnant and then getting married, under social pressure to do so, and they subsequently tried to live together as unsuitable life partners. I am content in knowing that someone loved me and that my mother probably did her best for me with limited help from others.

The serious abuse in my life started at a later date, at the hands of a stepfather; a few years after Daniel apparently disappeared from 24

my life due to my mother’s and Nan’s aggressive assertiveness to keep him from me. I guess the law did not recognise fathers as having any parental rights as they would today, and Granddad Tim only ever got my mother’s side of the story. Like any protective ‘father’, Granddad Tim probably acted as a block when Daniel made attempts to see me. I do know, because Daniel has since told me, that he spent time in prison for non-payment of maintenance and my other Nan, Daniel’s mother Dora, once told me that he had once locked himself in a toilet and cried when he could not get to see me. I did something very similar years later when I thought I had lost custody my son David. I also tried to commit suicide on that occasion. Daniel maintains that prison was light relief from what he describes as the 'evil and wicked' Amelia and Dora. They lied about him and cheated him to such an extent that when they returned his clothes and personal items, most were cut in half or had parts missing. This was an act of petty bitterness that he still blames on Dora through gritted teeth some forty eight years on. After the divorce, when I was two years old, it seems that I was left to live with Nana Dora and Granddad Tim. I now have my few happy memories of that time, but I do not recall my mother being part of it. The images and feelings in my mind that follow the happy memories are mostly of abandonment and loneliness.

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My mother was, I am told, a very loving, caring and generous person. She always did her best to protect me and I can recall happy memories of being with her when I was a little boy. Later, when I lived with her and her second husband (who I will call Mr Angry) she always baked cakes for me and made my birthdays very special. She worked long hours and kept more than one job to help feed us.

Today my mother will not talk to me and our relationship has declined to zero contact. I think she lives in denial of the subsequent sexual abuse and torment that I suffered whilst in care. She has also become a Jehovah’s Witness and I am sure this has also played a part in her decision to separate herself from me. I have truly missed her companionship in adult life and have a large vacuum of space in my heart where her love used to reside. One of my greatest desires is to have my mother hold me and tell me that she loves me and that she believes and understands what I went through, both whilst I was with her and Mr Angry, and also later when I was abandoned in the children’s home. This would heal an open wound that I carry deep within me. I have very mixed emotions about my mother, even today as a fifty year old man, and I am constantly fighting the desire to call her and talk to her. I particularly want to ask why she had left me in the home, even though I had disclosed to her that I was being sexually abused. This is something that I have never come to terms with. Sometimes I catch myself daydreaming of the happier times we had together in Overpool. I remember her taking me to Littlewoods 26

in my first school uniform to have my photograph taken sitting with a chimpanzee, and I remember sitting with her in Café’s, drinking warm milk. I can even recall travelling on the old style buses with big leather seats and sitting on the inward facing bench seat at the back near the conductor, which was a special treat.

These are happy memories, times in my mind that I feel safe, loved and content again. I think I was very close to my mother when I was aged five or six. These years were probably the happiest I had with her during my troubled early childhood. I can vividly remember being in her bed and cuddling up close to her from behind in a zigzag position. Her body was warm and felt like a safe place to be, with her cotton nightgown brushing soft against my face. In contrast, I also recall what seem like long periods of abandonment, a time when the dark is scary and the room I am in is empty. These recollections make me feel desperate, frightened and unprotected. Some of the memories I have recalled from this time are just too overbearing and upsetting for me to contemplate. Even now, I can’t bring myself to write down some things that happened.

I know that my mother worked long hours, and I suspect that I was left alone in the house for long periods. Today this would be classed as neglect, but I guess that back in the early sixties, in the rough working class town of Houghton, in Overpool, it was the norm for poor families who did not have social security to rely on for 27

sustenance. My mother once talked about getting blankets from a workhouse and how she suffered with no maintenance from my father, who by this time, I have learned, was living in a Comma van whilst travelling around Welsh market towns selling plastic wares and kitchen utensils. I know my mother often took me to work with her and made me stand by the vegetable carts for long periods of time, outside the lifts in Henry Lees in Overpool. She was working on the next floor up, demonstrating Knit Master knitting machines, and I remember being frightened of all the big people, passing by in a hurry and in all directions. I remember being desperate to go to the toilet; but too frightened to move from the place my mother had told me to stand, in case she returned while I was gone and I would be left in the shop alone.

I do not know all the circumstances that caused my mother to leave Daniel, and I can’t sit with Tim and Dora to ask the questions I have about this period, because they are both now dead. When I imagine the plight of the young mother, Amelia, in early 1960, I feel she is to be admired for her grit and determination. It seems that she did her best at a time when society frowned upon single mothers and did not offer the financial help and practical support that is available today. It seems that she had it tough and she worked herself out of a tough corner. If she had to make the hard decision to leave me with her parents, then it must have been the only option she had at that time, and I came to no harm with them. They loved me as their own. 28

My mother, it appears, came back for me as soon as she had a reliable income and a place for us both to stay. This is surely a sign of a loving and caring parent who was living with a failed marriage and a divorce in an unforgiving society. She had no way of knowing that her decision to move me from her parents would eventually lead to greater trauma and heartache for us both.

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2 Haunting Memories In this particular memory, it is probably 1962, and I am four years old. Me and my mother are living with an old man who I call Gandar, at 43 Vern Avenue in Hooten, Overpool. Gandar is blind and he gives me a bronze coloured three penny bit every Saturday. The coal fire in the back parlour is always burning and the house seems very dark, with brown paintwork, deep green walls, and a smell of damp in the air. I remember often walking around on my own in the house, and outside in the avenue. I don’t remember having any friends to play with, although I do remember little Kate from next door. Gandar looks after me sometimes during the day and I get his slippers for him when he wants them. I think my mother had a second job during the day. When I contemplate the memories of this time I feel lonely and sad.

I have learned that my mother worked as a housekeeper and live-in carer for this old man. Following his death, which I unfortunately witnessed, he left his house to us in his will. I have an image in my mind of this man lying on the floor with blood on his 30

forehead and his eyes were still, and looking at me. I was later told that it was my fault he died because he had slipped on a toy car I had left on a step at the top of the stairs.

At this stage of my life, just like any little boy aged four, I was basically content that I had a bed of my own, food and some toys. I remember being lonely and isolated in that house with the old blind man, but it was warm and it was home. I suppose I must have missed my Nana Dora and Granddad Tim, but I do not remember missing them. I do not recall any feelings about them at all during this period. I do however remember being alone and frightened in that dark and gloomy house. It was the house where we later became prisoners of violence; violence that was dealt by the hands of Mr Angry, my mother’s new husband, and my new step-father.

I do not recall Mr Angry entering my life with any sort of announcement, but I do remember being shocked at the age of seven, when I was told by my mother that he was not my ‘real’ dad. The news was, in some way, a relief as I had thought that a dad should have been kinder than Mr Angry was to me. I remember Mr Angry as an evil and angry bastard who seemed to enjoy beating my mother and hurting me. His influence on my life was negative in the extreme and it caused me to have a terrible fear of men, and because of the pets he kept, I also have an inherent fear of dogs. His actions are beyond my understanding and his drunken frustrations with his own 31

past should never have been worked out on my mother or me. I was later told that his dad had left the house when he was very young, apparently to buy a loaf from a corner shop, and had never returned home. This must have been hard for the young Mr Angry to experience however, the violent and cruel ‘adult’ Mr Angry was a much harder task for me to cope with.

I can recall many times of isolation, fear and loneliness when I think about this period of my life, especially after Gandar had died. I think my mother was working late nights, maybe with more than one job, and this is why I was so often left in the house alone. It may be that she thought Mr Angry was caring for me. I do remember, quite vividly, one occasion when I was walking around the avenue, late in the evening and in the dark, no older than four or five. I was feeling terrified, alone and confused. It was a traumatic experience for a little boy to feel so utterly abandoned. I can remember I was wearing short grey coloured trousers and white underpants. I had soiled myself and I had excrement running down my legs and into my sandals. I was smelly and needed an adult to help me but I could not find one. I remember having the fear of what Mr Angry would do to me if he found out. His heavy slaps and pokes were something I often endured when no one was looking, and the fear of his anger was a terrible burden. Mrs. Jones, who lived in the house next door, found me crying outside her house and she took me inside. I was cold, frightened, and wet. She stood me in a bucket of warm water while 32

she washed me down. I remember her daughters, Beth and Kate, who were a little older than me, laughing and pointing at me, holding their noses and saying ‘stinky, stinky we saw ya winky’. I had to wear a pair of knickers and a girl’s tee shirt until my mother came home. I fell asleep on their couch and woke up in my own bed the next morning. On this occasion I escaped a beating for my accident. Unless something like this has happened to you, it is difficult to convey just how traumatic an incident like this can be to a small child, and how many scars remain in adulthood. Just recalling this time in my life can stir up deep, overpowering emotions within me, causing me to be uncontrollably upset, even as I write.

Living with my mother and Mr Angry was sometimes good. I can recall days in the summer spent out as a family, travelling in Mr Angrys blue Sunbeam Rapier, driving to Wales to watch motorbike scrambling. I also remember Mr Angry redecorating the house, making it a much brighter place to live after Gandar had died. I recall helping to wash a new car that Mr Angry was so proud of. We changed from being cramped in a small blue Sunbeam Rapier to the absolute luxury of a big red shiny Vauxhall Victor Deluxe. We were the talk of the avenue the day he parked that car outside number forty three.

I have a frightening memory of watching Mr Angry beating a young teenager outside that house after he had caught him breaking 33

off the Vauxhall’s radio aerial. Mr Angry was a bully and quite often had confrontations with others in the neighbourhood. That young lad was unfortunate enough to feel the full force of a punch in the face. Mr Angry was a bombastic and arrogant ‘Jekyll and Hyde’ character who once had a toe-to-toe fight with the headmaster at the Vern Avenue Infant’s school, which I attended. He had been warned on numerous occasions that he should not allow his Alsatian dogs to foul the playing fields. I was with Mr Angry when that confrontation occurred and a few months later, the headmaster brutally caned my little hand in an outburst of anger in his office. I had apparently ‘cocked my eyes’ at him. It was an infant’s school. I was an infant. He caned me with such force that he broke my thumb on the third strike. I was sent back to the classroom and I just sat and cried until home time.

I remember spending many months at home, kept off school by my mother, who had made an official complaint to the School authorities. I was told later that the headmaster was removed as a direct result of the assault on me. I can only guess that he had been working out the continued frustrations he had with Mr Angry and his Alsatian dogs, and that this was his form of retribution. Ironically, Vern School had originally been a happy place for me. I can recall following the children down Vern road as they were going to school, and sneaking into a class room to sit with them. This was before I had officially started at school. On another occasion, when trying to make 34

friends, I climbed on the school wall by the gates. I was showing off and then fell and broke my leg. I can also recall the first day at that school, as an ‘official’ infant; most of the other kids were crying, but I was just happy to be first on the rocking horse that stood in the infant’s classroom.

I once got severe beating from Mr Angry after one of his dogs had died. The dog, named Satan, had choked on a piece of pipe from the shed and Mr Angry held me responsible because he said I left the shed door open. He dragged me around the house, shouting, pushing, shoving, and shaking me. His spit used to hit my face when he did this and I was always terrified. This is another memory that brings a wave of emotion when I recall it. It was after an attack like this one that I developed a facial twitch and stopped communicating with people. I remember being silent for a long time. I recall the inability to speak and the frustrations of those who tried to communicate with me. My mother took me to a child psychologist and he sent me to a ‘special’ class in another school once a week. It was at that class that I made a papier mache mask of an angry face. I kept that mask until I was fifteen. No one ever realised that the mask was Mr Angry, the cause of my silence and my twitch.

After my little brother Ray was born, Mr Angry resented me even more than before, and his violent outbursts toward me increased tenfold. He would always favour Ray. His mother, I think 35

she was called Annie, used to visit the house and bring sweets for Ray. She too always left me out and had no time for me. I have memories of arguments and beatings happening up to 1967, which is when we had moved to thirty nine Larks Lane, in Southall. On one occasion I can remember him poking me in the chest so hard that I had small finger-sized bruises all over my chest for weeks afterwards. After this I complained to my mother about breathing pains but she simply told people I had asthma.

On another occasion, I had messed up Mr Angrys tools in the garage. I was dragged upstairs by him and he held my head under cold running water before throwing me on my bed and locking me in the room. I recall whimpering alone in that room, and unable to catch my breath. On another occasion Mr Angry literally hung me upside down by my feet out of the back bedroom window. I was terrified of being dropped on the concrete flags below in the garden. I remember the feeling of hot urine running over my stomach as he held on to my ankles. He was shouting and lowering me up and down, as if he was going to drop me. The pebble-dashed wall cut my knees and elbows as I screamed and apologised to him. He had caught me lowering my action-man out of the window on a piece of string. It was just a game. The fear of this incident left me with a terrible anxiety in later life that would manifest itself whenever I was up ladders, or on the edge of a sea cliff. I also had a fear of dogs that I took with me into adult life. Mr Angry used to make me stand in the kitchen at Vern road if I was 36

naughty. The dogs were kept in the kitchen and they used to growl at me. He would shout ‘guard’ and they would sit and stare at me. If I moved, they would growl. This was a horrible thing to do to a child. I was traumatised by the fear of being eaten by dogs. Later, as an adult, I lived with such a fear of dogs that I would break into a sweat and shake, even at the sight of a small dog. I always tried to hide my fear because I was so embarrassed.

When my mother eventually managed to take us away from Mr Angry, accompanied by two policemen she had asked to come with her to protect us from him, I felt totally relieved, as if a nightmare had ended. My little brother Ray was left behind with Mr Angry and I pined for my brother for many months afterwards.

We left the pleasant neighbourhood of Larks Lane, and the large comfortable and well fitted home we shared with Mr Angry and Ray, carrying a few boxes of clothes, and as many toys as I could manage. The previous months had seen violent outbursts from Mr Angry that had become just too intolerable for my mother to cope with. I recall the violence vividly, and remember often hiding under my bed in the box room while they argued late into the night. I would cuddle Ray, who would cry a lot, and I would hope that Mr Angry would not find me and drag me out from under the bed and beat me or humiliate me in some way. Towards the end of their marriage, my mother would sometimes stay away overnight. On 37

these occasions, his violence toward me would erupt without provocation. I recall one evening when I was sitting on top of the stairs, when I should really have been in bed. I had heard shouting, had gone to see what was happening and saw my mother trying to get in through the front door. Mr Angry was leaning against it with the chain lock on, shouting abuse at her and trying to trap her hand. That night, after she had given up and left, He pulled my hair and dragged me back to my bed. He called me a little shit and a twat.

Several years of abuse came to an end on the day we drove off up Larks Lane in a taxi that was flanked by two police motorcycles. The last thing I saw as I turned back to see Ray, was Mr Angry standing at the gate sticking his fingers up. If my brother Ray reads this, I want him to know that I did love him and I really missed him. We had been very close for a while, but time and circumstance has since made us total strangers. I wish I had been older and able to rescue him.

Our new home was in Derwind Road in Havenhead, Southall. It was a shock to find myself living with my Grandmother, Nana Dora, and my mother in a small scruffy dark house that, at first, had no furniture and not even any beds, carpets or curtains. My mother had made it as comfortable as she could for my arrival, but it seemed derelict to me. My first bed in that house was a door with a mattress on it, supported by two wooden crates at either end. I was quickly 38

sent to a new school and, although I was happy to be away from Mr Angry, this new life did not suit me and I slowly became more and more depressed.

I was just ten years old and very unhappy,

confused and desperately missing Ray. The grown-ups in my life never asked me how I felt about things and I never told them. I took to petty crime, stealing cash from the milkman that I worked with on Saturday mornings, and stealing small Humbrol paint pots from the local hobby shop in Oxtam village. I was an artistic kid who would quite often spend hours upon hours alone in my bedroom, drawing and painting. I had taken to painting naked women in oils, after my mother had bought me an art book showing how to draw naked figures. I used to steal dirty magazines from the local newsagent and then copy the pictures and keep them under my bed. When my mother discovered them I expected a telling-off, but to my surprise I was praised for the artistic talent that I had demonstrated and she encouraged me to continue with them. I think this is when my later obsession with the female form was born.

Life at Derwind Road was pretty miserable and the divorce was messy. Mr Angry tried to run us over one night near the Havenhead Technical College, right outside the Glenda Jackson Theatre. His car, a green Mini-van, mounted the pavement and came towards us at great speed, just missing my mother as she pushed me away into a bush at the side of the road. She was swearing loudly at him as the car went past and he was shaking his fist at her through the window. 39

I was very glad that my mother moved to our new big house in Arnold road, in Oxtam on the Southall, and that Mr Angry did not know were she lived. The divorce went through and my mother later told me that it had been agreed that Mr Angry would keep Ray and the family home in Larks Lane. I have never understood why she did not fight for custody of Ray instead of just abandoning him like she did. Ray was to be given my mothers 50% share of the equity when he was twenty one, which is when Mr Angry was forced to sell the house. It cost £3,000 in 1967 and later sold for more than £50,000. It’s ironic that Ray and Mr Angry got a share and I did not. Especially since the house in Vern Avenue that had enabled the purchase, was originally left to my mother and me by Gandar, long before Mr Angry was even on the scene.

I don’t object to Ray getting his share, but that bastard Mr Angry did not deserve any of my rightful inheritance. Today, Mr Angry lives at one end of Larks Lane, in a house he built himself, and Ray lives in his own home, close by, with his partner and his two dogs. He bought the house with some of the cash from the sale of number thirty nine. Now Mr Angry and Ray do not talk because his violence eventually spilled into Ray’s life in later years. Ray retaliated when he became an adult and hit him back. I have recently visited Mr Angry, as part of my research for this book, and I found him still locked into his hatred of my mother, some thirty two years later. He seemed nervous of me when I unexpectedly knocked on his door, 40

and I felt nothing for him. I had neither anger nor pity towards him as he sat opposite me, pouring a cup of tea and mumbling something about knowing a judge. My fear of him was finally under control. His eyes did not often meet mine during the brief meeting and I noticed his hand shaking and beads of sweat running down his left temple. It was enough for me to know that I could have produced a baseball bat, right there and then, and I could have easily beaten him to death if I had wanted. I did consider it. Nothing would have brought me more joy than to see him quiver with fear at the end of a bat that I was holding. However, I did not take any action against him. He is now a pathetic old man with health problems. I value my own freedom and I would not let my family down by doing something that could jeopardise their lives, and my liberty. He still drinks too much and seems content in a tiny world that has become his own prison, insulated with whisky and bitterness.

The abuse I had suffered at the hands of my stepfather was extreme. I was regularly hit, shouted at, and poked in the chest until I was bruised. Watching him argue and strike my mother was also a regular occurrence and I often hid under my bed and cried late at night when I heard things being smashed and my mother screaming. The most haunting memory that I have is of him hitting me with a belt after stripping me naked and then destroying my bedroom in a rage. I was five or six when he first did this to me. I do not know what I had done to deserve such a brutal punishment and he 41

attacked me as if I was a grown man. Firstly he ripped out all the furniture in my bedroom, literally pulling them out of their fixings. He smashed them with his feet and fists as he hurled them down the stairs. He pulled down the curtains in his rage and even pulled up the carpet until there was just a hill of mess and broken wood. He then turned on me and pushed and pulled me and ripped my clothes. He stripped me naked and then hit me with his belt. I do not know were my mother was when this happened, I just remember cowering in the corner and crying and shaking for a long time afterwards.

He also once sat on my little chest and force-fed me with sprouts because I would not eat them. I remember the feeling of choking on vomit when he did this and thought I was going to die. He must have weighed at least fifteen stone. He was a fat bastard with a moustache and I was a skinny kid with a pale complexion. In adult life, even to this day, I baulk at the smell of sprouts. My wife loves them but knows to keep them away from me when she is cooking them. I also have a problem with the fear of choking. Many times I have had to have abdominal thrusts performed on me to help remove a small item from my throat. If I hear a child making a choking sound, I experience a ‘fight or flight’ panic attack and my heart rate increases rapidly.

Mr. Angry once took my mother to the pictures, in Overpool city centre, to see Dr. Zhivago, and they left me in the back of the 42

green mini-van, locked in and alone for nearly three hours in the dark. I wet my pants and was later dragged to the bathroom when we got home for a strip-wash before being sent to bed without supper.

This man was my father for a while. Surprisingly, I have happy memories of sitting between his legs on the bench seat of his red Vauxhall Victor, steering the car and changing gears with his hand over mine on the gear lever. I remember standing by the edge of a large pond in the north end of Havenhead, watching him racing his model speedboats that he had made for himself. I was never allowed to touch his toys. I also remember him helping me to ride my bicycle without the stabilisers. I can only surmise that his relationship with me changed drastically after his own son was born, and as his relationship with my mother deteriorated. I have since been told that he had a drink problem from an early age and that his father leaving him, when he was a young boy, had affected him a lot. On the outside, he was a ‘man’s man’ who could handle himself in most situations. He was talented as a craftsman, working in the Overpool University, teaching woodwork and model making. He was also a qualified referee in his spare time. The man I experienced however, behind closed doors, was a wife and child beater who drank too much and seemed to be at war with himself and everyone around him. He dominated my mother with fear and she lived, with me by her side, in a constant state of terror. He never bullied or beat Ray, 43

who was the apple of his eye. I was often excluded from treats and gifts while I watched him and his mother shower Ray with love and affection.

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3 The Hospital Affair The period of my life, just after escaping Mr Angry with my mother, is somewhat hazy but several situations have remained vivid in my memory. School was becoming a problem for me, and I was also secretly drinking my mother’s whisky for many months. Derwind road was in a rough area and I had started hanging around with a lad called Stuart, who introduced me to school truancy and stealing sweets from shops in Fenton, not far from the school I was attending. I quite often said goodbye to my mother, dressed for school and carrying a school bag with a concealed change of clothes in it. The days I spent with Stuart seemed dangerous and exciting. We often set light to Royal Mail post boxes and stole things at every opportunity from front gardens or unattended garages. One shop we went to regularly was an easy target for stealing bottles from its back yard. We used to climb over the wall, empty the crates of a dozen or so bottles, and then take them into the same shop and collect the deposit refund. Somewhat ironically, one of our regular stops for stealing stuff turned out to be my father’s shop in Franton. Part of the attraction of that shop was the blonde woman who worked there. She

45

had really big tits, and her blouse was always open at the top. I was later shocked to discover that this was actually my stepmother, Verity. Years later I suggested to her that we have an affair. I used to fantasise about her after I had seen her walk past a bedroom door naked, when I once stayed at my father’s house for a weekend visit. She said no to the affair, but promised not to tell my dad that I had asked. I only ever stayed with my father on one occasion in my entire life. I have also realised that we have never touched, let alone hugged.

Stuart was a proper tearaway and seemed to have a determination to get into trouble. I soon got used to the luxury and excitement of lazy days hiding in fields near Stoby Village, instead of being at school. We also managed to get a couple of girlfriends who would join us, in a field in Stonewall village, for a snog and a ‘show me yours’ session. On one occasion I took the girls to that field on my own and made them look at my penis. They ran off and I just lay there looking at the sky with my pants around my ankles. Stuart and I both attended Fenton Boys School in Turnmere, next to Turnmere Rovers football ground. I hated every minute of my time at that school. I was still living at Derwind road at that time with my mother and grandmother. Fenton was an all-boy’s school. It was rough, and I could not understand the work they gave me to do. My mind at that time was confused and I found it difficult to deal with the emotions that would often well up inside me, at random times during the day, 46

when I sat looking out the classroom window. I did not understand the trauma I was experiencing and I can remember crying for no apparent reason and just sitting in class feeling totally disassociated from the human race around me. The adults around me had no idea what was going on in my life or my mind. The form teacher at that school tried to be kind to me, and once asked the class to donate money to buy a book token for me because I had told him I was poor. Although well intentioned, I hated his act of kindness because it just made me feel like a charity case.

It was one morning, on the way to school, that I finally lost the ability to endure my horrible life any further. I got off the bus outside Havenhead Children’s Hospital and presented myself to the nurses in the accident and emergency department. As unusual as this was, I managed to convince them to let me to see a doctor. His name was Dr. Bradley, and I told him about the bumps and pains in my legs. He contacted my mother, who soon came to the hospital. She tried to convince the doctor that I was a ‘difficult’ child who made up stories. She did not seem to comprehend my unusual behaviour. I do remember rubbing my shin really hard with the heel of my shoe to make it all look worse, but I really did have the pains and I was determined to get attention and get hospitalised. I guess I was in someway looking for respite from my life, and an escape from my mother’s irrational lifestyle. Luckily for me, Dr. Bradley realised that all was not well, and had me admitted to hospital immediately. 47

I was in hospital for a long time. I was in the children’s ward and I really enjoyed being there because it seemed every day, people were nice to me. They spent time with me and they fed me regularly. A teacher would come to the ward and give us work to do in the mornings. For the first time in many months I enjoyed learning things and I lapped up the praise for my efforts. I began to feel valued again.

I met a girl at the hospital named Julie, who had been in a very bad traffic accident. Her legs were damaged and she was bed-ridden. We struck up a friendship and we were put together in a small annexe that was attached to the ward. Twenty two years later I found myself in that same annexe, shouting at Jesus during a prayer meeting; but more of that later. The ward nurses thought it was lovely that Julie and I had become friends. We talked a lot and kissed when we could. I used to sneak out of my bed in the night and touch her between the legs. I used to rub her vagina and then kiss it. We were just two young kids exploring sex, and our secret world was a distraction to the routine of hospital life. I was eleven and she was ten.

During my time at the hospital I am almost 100% sure that I was abused by a nurse or a doctor. This memory may be false, and could quite easily be a recollection from another time, earlier in my 48

life. I have a vivid picture in my mind of waking to find a man and a woman touching and rubbing my penis. I remember that the room was dark and a torch light was shining on my legs.

I had a birthday while in the hospital; I think it was my eleventh. I remember the nurses giving me cards and a present. I remember expecting my mother to visit on my special day, but she never arrived. My auntie Anne came to see me instead, and she told me that my mother was unable to come because she was busy. I was not really bothered by her absence, but I cried in order to illicit some sympathy from the nurses. Their hugs felt really good. The warm feeling of their soft breasts pressed against my face, through a fresh uniform, made me happy. I am not sure if this was a sexual feeling or just infantile comfort.

It was while in the hospital that I first heard about going on holiday to Wales. A stranger, a man, came to see me and told me that I was going on a two-week holiday to Wales with some other boys. I was very excited at this prospect. I was taken first to an office in Milton Square in Havenhead, to meet a man named William.

I later left the hospital and stayed for about a week in a home that was run by nuns, before being taken to Wales. The nun’s home was just a big house on an estate, and was called Fenton Dell. I remember that the nuns were unfriendly and unloving. I was made 49

to get up early in the morning to clean steps with a hard brush before I had any breakfast. When I left, they gave me leaflets about God. That’s all I remember.

On the journey to Wales, I had my face pressed up against the side window of the car, watching people and places go by. I was happy for a few hours and excited at the prospect of a nice holiday. I imagined the beach and the games. I also wondered why all my toys, clothes, and art stuff, were stacked in a box on the back seat of the car. That short journey was filled with wonderful expectations and I do not recall being bothered about leaving my mother and grandmother behind as I left.

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4 The Home from Hell In 1968 I was taken to an independent boy’s home, which was located in North Wales. I was taken by a social worker from the social services department for Havenhead in Southall. There are no official records available to me to explain why this happened, or who it was that had authorised my placement in care. Only my mother, who is unwilling to discuss the matter with me, knows the true circumstances that led to my incarceration in an institution that is now known to have been a barbaric place of rapes, beatings and sexual abuse for many of its residents. I have written evidence, supplied to me by Havenhead social services, saying that no official records can be found that relate to my placement ‘in care’.

The home was a community centre for boys, later described in the national press as ‘The Home from Hell’. It was an independent business that later became known as (name withheld) Community (Holdings) Ltd. The home today, 39 years later, has long been closed down after becoming notorious for offences of child abuse that were committed, mainly by its founder, who I shall call ‘Mr Shush’. He was a charismatic man who dominated, and deviously preyed upon, the children placed in his care. He was also able to mesmerise the adult care staff with his charm and generosity. He also manipulated many officials, who considered him to be a saintly maverick figure, challenging tradition and revolutionising the approach to childcare. 51

The home became a dumping ground for unwanted children throughout the 1970’s and 1980’s. It was also a very convenient playground for its paedophile founder and his secret friends. Mr Shush, who was just 24 years old when he opened The Home from Hell, was eventually jailed in 1995 aged fifty eight. He was convicted of indecently assaulting young boys, and received a six year sentence. His twenty seven year reign of abuse was finally exposed in 1995, although I know, through personal experience, that this particular conviction only represents the tip of Mr Shushes’ secret iceberg. He has since served less than six years in prison, and is now a free man, as far as I know.

Many victims, some themselves subsequently imprisoned and not considered as credible, and many more who are simply unable to talk openly of the abuse they suffered, have never told the full horror story of their time in The Home from Hell. Sadly many of the boys who I knew are now dead, having committed suicide later in life. I believe their stories will never be known. Mr Shush probably abused hundreds of children between 1968 and 1990. I witnessed him abusing boys many times, sometimes as many as fifteen boys in a single afternoon’s ‘medical check-up’ session. These sessions were conducted in his private bathroom on the first floor of the home; next to the clothing store and laundry room where his wife sometimes worked. His 'modus operadi' was to invite a selected number of boys, 52

one at a time, into the bathroom, whereupon he would lock the door and then explain that it was his duty to inspect us for head lice. He would then ask us to drop our trousers and underpants. He said he also had to inspect us for other diseases, and would proceed to massage your testicles and move his hand up and down the shaft of your penis. This would not last very long and then he would dismiss you. I remember my shame and feelings of guilt after he did this to me.

The length of time Mr Shush has served in prison is an insult to the hundreds of lives he dismantled during his reign. The effect of his manipulative and evil regime has been far reaching. Many boys, who resided in The Home, grew to be men who carried with them deep, dark emotional scars that have never healed. Not only has his reign of abusive behaviour ‘infected’ the lives of some who were entrusted to his care, but it has also subsequently impacted on the people who later came to share their lives with those of us who had been abused by him.. Some of those boys are now also convicted paedophiles, and others have since been found dead after committing suicide, or accidentally overdosing on drugs.

The lucky ones, many of whom had suffered sexual, physical, or emotional abuse, have managed to scrape a life together after escaping The Home from Hell, only to live lives cursed with crime, broken relationships, low self-esteem and disabled hearts that have 53

struggled to really love or trust anyone.

The account of my personal experience in The Home from Hell is by no means the worst experience that anyone ever had there, but I believe it is probably representative of hundreds of accounts that will never be written down. It is true to say that some enjoyed their time there.

I, and many others, did not.

Mr Shush abused me many times during my time at The Home. He also abused me in a tent in Spain whilst on a camping holiday. He abused me in a bedroom in his private home that he shared with his new wife, in 1970, and on numerous occasions when we lay together in the dark, on Famoel Mountain in North Wales. We were supposed to be playing war games against opposing teams of boys and staff, but he was playing a game of his own.

I remember lying on the ground in the still of the night, high on the Famoel range. Mr Shush would often choose me for his team and then we would go ahead of the others to investigate the terrain. Once we were alone he would push me down and say that the enemy was ahead. It was on these occasions he would press himself up against me in a heavy manner. I could feel his penis sticking in my bottom. He would move about and murmur quietly in the dark. I honestly 54

can’t recall any pain, I am not even truly sure if he actually buggered me, or if he just enjoyed rubbing up against me. I was a child, and I guess I just blocked it out. I think the actual trauma has been erased from my memory.

The last time he was able to abuse me was in his parent’s home during 1972. He and his wife were taking me to Cornwall to start a new life with my mother and her third husband, Robert. Mr Shushs’ wife and parents were asleep, while Mr Shush was masturbating me and sucking my penis in the darkness of his parent’s living room. I lay frozen like a statute on a camp bed pretending to be asleep. He later gave me money, knowing that it was the last time he could get his hands on me. I think it was about fifteen pounds.

I was, by this time in my life, sexually active and had experienced many petting sessions with girls from school, in the haylofts around the Clay area where The Home was located. I had managed to have sex a few times but had never ejaculated, and most of my sexual activity with girls was, up to this point, unsuccessful. At around the age of twelve or thirteen I had developed a friendship with a lad named Raymond. We had started to masturbate at the same time when we realised that Mr Shush was peeping into our annexed bedroom where we both slept. It was located at the back of the staff bedroom which was used mainly by Mr Shush. I do not recall any words or any formal arrangements with Mr Shush, or with 55

Raymond, but the nights of masturbation were usually followed by extra treats from him the following day. Ironically, one such treat was a meal out with him in the grand Merit Hall Hotel and Restaurant. This place later became Mr Shush's ‘tycoon’ home. Raymond and I eventually took to secretly masturbating each other and I think this affected my sexual relationships with girls. I remember being paranoid that people would think I was homosexual. This was another root cause of my growing obsession with girls and sex. I wanted to prove that I was not a ‘bummer’, and I later developed a reputation as a ‘shagger’ who could get any girl he wanted. This reputation followed me into my adult life and only ceased when I fell in love with my wife in 1989.

The Home from Hell grew to around eleven homes between 1968 and 1991. It was a very profitable business, dealing with thirty eight local authorities in the UK, and had a published turnover of twenty eight million pounds between 1977 and 1990. Mr Shush expanded his empire and moved from living in a small bedroom at The Home from Hell, with an old blue VW Beetle car parked outside, to living in absolute luxury in Merit Hall. His private residence was both a home and playground to the paedophile tycoon. I visited his grand house many years later and was first greeted by his wife. Within minutes of arriving at this plush residence, I saw Mr Shush walk past the window of his large games room. His hand was lightly draped over the shoulder of a young blonde boy. I remember feeling 56

extremely sick at this sight. I eventually left Merit Hall after waiting three hours for Mr Shush to come and see me. By this demonstration of aloofness, it seemed he still had a mental hold over me, many years after I had last set eyes on him. Without words or even seeing me, he was able to frighten me away before I, like many before me, tried to confront him about the past. I had gone to him in a desperate situation. I had my son David with me, who was just a tiny baby, and I was hoping to get financial help from him for me and my son to start a new life. I left with some warm milk in the baby bottle that Nancy gave me and nothing else.

When I was placed at The Home from Hell I was barely eleven years old and had already experienced traumatic events in my childhood that had left me emotionally disabled, deeply scarred and very confused. I had been a patient in the Havenhead children’s hospital in Southall, prior to being taken into care. I had been officially diagnosed as suffering from a hypersensitivity reaction, named erythema nodosum. Despite my mother’s claim that I was telling lies about the pains in my legs, this condition was later thought to be a reaction to the extreme emotional effect of violence and mental abuse.

The day I was taken to The Home from Hell, a new nightmare began, leaving a negative effect on me for the rest of my life. Through my own subsequent research, I have learned that I was placed into 57

care at the request of my mother. I did not attend any court hearings, I was not a criminal and I had never been in trouble with the police. I also discovered that a social worker had been a guest at my Nan’s guesthouse at the time I was taken from the hospital to The Home from Hell. I wonder if there is a connection. His name was Ken.

Years later I was told that I had been reported as being out of control at school, generally very cheeky to teachers, and quite often found playing truant from school, usually with Stuart O’Brien. This was true, but I was not a criminal. I was just a confused, shy and introverted ten year old abuse victim that desperately needed protecting from my mother’s irrational and often emotionally charged lifestyle. My mother had rescued us both from the violence of my stepfather but her new life with her mother, and the separation from my little brother Ray, was too much for me to cope with. My mother had also suffered at her husband’s violent hands and she was trying hard to re-build her life. My parents had failed at both marriage and child rearing, but I was the one who paid the price of their failure. I was given an unjust sentence without trial, and taken away. This damaged me for life.

I do not know who made the final decision for me to be taken to The Home from Hell. I do recall a social worker type collecting me from the hospital after I had been taken to see the bald man named William Tirem. He told me I was going to go to a nice boy’s home in 58

the countryside for a couple of weeks. This was to allow my mother and grandmother some rest, and to help me get back on my feet. I later discovered that William Tirem was a member of staff at The Home. I also discovered that he had an unhealthy interest in little boys. He ‘accidently’ touched me in the showers whenever he had to opportunity and he often stood and watched when I had a bath. I do recall the feelings of embarrassment and shame. I did nothing about it because I was alone and afraid of the consequences of challenging him.

I finally left The Home from Hell some 5 years later, in 1973.

The day I arrived at The Home from Hell was a day of terror and enlightenment. I literally wet my pants when a boy told me he was going to hit me. On that very first day, I smoked my first cigarette, I saw another boy’s erect penis for the first time, and I experienced what I would describe as a ‘possessions rape’; as I sat on Mr Shush’s knee in the small staff room, I watched William Tirem handing out all my toys and clothes to the other boys who had come to meet me.

They told me to call them Jim and William, and they said they were going to be like fathers to me. On that first day I was made to shower naked in front of William. I remember lying in my bed that first night, terrified and very lonely. I had realised that this was not 59

going to be a holiday and there were going to be no games on the beach.

Within weeks of arriving at The Home from Hell, Mr Shush started regularly masturbating me with an older boy named Colin. Mr Shush would creep into the room and start touching me under the blankets. He would bring Colin who would also touch me. Mr Shush often hit Colin if anyone complained that he had tried to touch them. Colin is now a convicted paedophile who has been dubbed by the national press as ‘Britain’s most notorious serial child abuser’. He was convicted of rape, later in life, and was sentenced to nine years imprisonment. On his release from a mental hospital he was found wandering the streets with a colouring book and pencils, and he admitted he was trying to entice children for sex.

The young Colin had learning difficulties and was regularly beaten up by the boys in the home. I believe that Mr Shush is directly responsible for turning Colin into the adult sex monster he later became.

After two years in The Home from Hell I had managed to change my image to such an extent that my mother, when visiting for the first time in two years, did not recognise me when I greeted her in the car park. I had a different haircut, and sported self-inflicted tattoos on my arms. I was very thin and outwardly very aggressive 60

towards everyone. I was so thin that the boys gave me the nickname ‘Twiggy’. My mother gave me a red and cream coloured record player with a few records inside it, one of which was the song, ‘He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother’. She seemed to think this gift was adequate compensation for abandoning me. It was not. I hated the bitch and I wanted to spit at her. I kept my feelings inside and played the happy son. I had learned that visitors often gave money and sweets to appease their own guilt at leaving us kids when their visit was over.

The record player made me popular with the other boys and it was used by most of them regularly. I eventually swapped it for cigarettes and a dirty magazine. I hated my mother for lying to me, and did not cherish anything she gave me. I remember writing the words ‘fucking bitch’ on my leg with a biro pen. I despised her. She liked to project the image of a caring mother, but she was happy to leave me behind again as she returned to her childless life. She had abandoned my brother Ray and then she had abandoned me.

The routines in The Home from Hell were very disciplined and regimental. Every day began with a dorm leader, who was usually an older boy, shouting at you to get out of your bed. We all feared the dorm leaders because they were allowed to hit us and humiliate us without being reprimanded by the adult staff. Standing by your bed, half asleep, and quite often with an embarrassing erection that was 61

difficult to hide, you held on tight to your toothbrush and towel in silence, while waiting to be ushered in lines to the bathrooms, one dormitory at a time, in numerical order.

The bed making and cleaning up, before 7am breakfast, was done with fanatical precision each day and the reward of points, given by the adult staff on duty, for the tidiest rooms, were highly sought after. The dorm leaders were encouraged to be very competitive and they would do just about anything to get the highest points. Each of them knew that this would lead to them being rewarded by the home’s founder, Mr Shush. The dorm leaders did not tolerate bed wetting, and the other boys in the dormitory were ordered to beat and whip with wet towels whenever a boy had a ‘little accident’. This would happen almost every day. Later, when I became a dorm leader for room six, I ruled it with a stick and regularly humiliated a bed-wetter named James. I am ashamed to recall the pain and exclusion I put him through every day, for many months. After two years in care I too had learned to abuse, and induce in others the same amount of terror that I had suffered when I arrived. I was a boy who was beginning to emulate my step-father, Angry Man, with violence and arrogance.

My life at The Home from Hell was mostly mundane and the time was broken only with outbursts of violence between boys, or arguments with the staff. Some survivors have commented that they 62

experienced happiness and good care in the Home. Perhaps they did. They were the lucky ones who did not attract the inappropriate attention from Mr Shush. Many still hail him as a hero. It’s true to say that he could be a kind and generous man. However, I would say that this saintly persona was part of his elaborate and successful grooming process. I accept that he did not abuse all the boys who were entrusted to him, but, he did abuse me, and he has been convicted of abusing others.

Things considered as intolerable and cruel by those on the outside, were the ‘norm’ in The Home. Everyday activities such as eating, sleeping, washing, schooling and playing were regimented and in themselves non-eventful, apart from constant shouting of verbal abuse at the staff. Food was never in abundance, and treats, such as extra bread and chocolate biscuits, were rare and always considered valuable currency. If I managed to steal any, I would be popular. It was not unusual to be offered stolen booty in exchange for doing favours, or as a swap for some cigarettes or dirty magazines. Some lads would promise fags and chocolate if you entertained them by hitting another kid.

The older lads would give you a fag if you ran errands for them. The practice of gifts for favours was quickly learned, and of course also practiced with more sinister results, by Mr Shush. If he came into the dorm and quietly abused you during the night, you 63

could expect some sort of gift or special treat the following day. He never discussed the abuse with you. I usually got a signed chitty from him that allowed me ‘out on trust’, and I would quite often be taken by staff for a spending spree in a Wroxham clothing shop. I was one of the best dressed kids in the home.

Wroxham, the nearest big town to The Home, was a hostile place for any ‘Home from Hell’ boy. We had a reputation for stealing and fighting and this caused some shops to ban us. One shop, I recall, had a sign in the window reading ‘No Home from Hell boys allowed’. It felt like being a black person in a deep-south, racist ‘white’ American town. This type of exclusion just made us all the more dependant on our 'saviour and protector', Mr Shush. He was always defending us and promoting our rights. This was the façade of the quiet abuser of boys. By day he portrayed a kind and caring persona, but by night, some of us met his alter-ego.

Each unaccompanied visit to Wroxham was a test of bravery, as local gangs of youths constantly wanted to test our reputation. We were not allowed out of The Home from Hell in groups of more than three at a time, so we were always at a disadvantage when confronted by one of these mobs. We occasionally found one of the local boys alone, walking behind the indoor market, and I remember being party to the beating of one lad on such an occasion. I just kept punching and kicking him in the face until his tears, teeth and blood 64

were on the pavement. I was terrified and yet excited at the power of being in control. On another occasion we cornered a lad on his own at the railway station, and we dragged him into the toilets and pulled his pants down. We left him crying and crouched in pain after we each took a turn at kicking him in the groin and punching him in the face. One of the lads with us set fire to his pubic hair with a lighter.

Attending outside school was also a daily ordeal that we had to survive. We were taken from The Home each morning in a light blue, twelve-seat Bedford van. We attended various small schools in the surrounding villages. Each school had agreed to take a few boys from The Home. I went to a school in Gerveny that shared the same name as The Home, but was not connected in anyway. The van, with The Home from Hell's name written on the side of it, would drop us off in the morning and pick us up at the end of the day. My school was built in the middle of a small Welsh village on the outskirts of Wroxham. It was a ‘closed’ community and they did not tolerate newcomers very well, especially those who came with a reputation such as that shared by The Home from Hell Boys.

Parents told their children to keep away from us in school and teachers found us to be convenient scapegoats for anything broken or stolen. Some teachers even made us stand at the back of the class to sharpen pencils and excluded us from certain activities. We never did woodwork, cooking, or science. I think this was in case we got hold 65

of a weapon and took it back to The Home. This was another form of exclusion that contributed to our increasing resentment of other kids, and anyone in authority.

The truth is that we were usually in the middle of any trouble, but we were not responsible for every misdeed in the school. We responded aggressively when being blamed for everything. Our notoriety did however make us popular with the girls, and this was some consolation for the many canings we received from the headmaster. We were always caned as a response to our mischief, no matter how trivial it was, because the teachers were unable to keep us ‘on detention’ after school in case we missed the van. I think most of the teachers viewed us as hardened criminals and felt that they had more liberty when dishing out corporal punishment. After all, our parents were hardly going to complain to the school. They forgot that we were in care for protection. They forgot that we were just children, like their own.

I attended my outside school along with a boy called Alvin. He was one of my arch enemies within the home, but we always stuck up for each other whilst at school. Alvin was a good little Geordie scrapper, and he taught me to kick your opponent in the face as soon as he was on the floor. He and I nearly got expelled when a teacher caught us on the flat roof of the girl’s showers, peeping through the clear glass dome window after the netball session. They were naked 66

and we were looking to see which of the girls had tits and a hairy fanny.

The Home from Hell van was occasionally late, and this sometimes led to fights outside the school gates with the local gangs and older lads from the school. Alvin and I would stand back-toback, each armed with a stick or a brick, and take on these contenders regularly. If we got caught fighting we were in big trouble at school and even worse trouble at The Home. Conversely, if we did not fight we were beaten up. School was a daily challenge of survival that was only enjoyable on the days we managed to get a girl, literally, behind the bike sheds, for a ‘fanny-feel’ or a ‘tit-squeeze’. In the van on the way home, we often compared smelly fingers to see who had touched the most girls. Sticking your finger up your bum usually convinced the other lads that you had been successful that day.

The Home from Hell was a cesspit of sexual deviancy, violence and abandonment. Each boy had a horror story to tell about their past. Some were ordinary little boys who were simply the victims of divorce. Some boys, as young as nine, were already hardened little criminals. Some clearly had special needs and should have been getting cared for elsewhere. Some lads were like men, whilst others were barely out of junior school, and yet they often shared the same dormitory. My first two years at The Home had changed me into a person who had learned to survive by reflecting my surroundings. I 67

was learning to be chameleon-like, and was developing various personas. It was a hostile environment, so I became hostile towards those around me. The Home from Hell was a ‘living’ lie in itself, and everything about me was also becoming a lie. My true self was quickly being eradicated and I metamorphosed into a being that was to forever carry the stigma of having once been 'in care'.

The nights in that home were sometimes awash with buggery for some, and also the fear of beatings from older boys. The horror of a pillow being pushed hard over your face in the silence of the night while other boys whipped your body through the blankets with their towels was, in some way, light relief from the feelings of horror, invasion, helplessness and disgust that I and others experienced when waking abruptly from a deep sleep to find Mr Shush sucking your penis, his hand heavily draped over your mouth. He would gently whisper “shush” with his finger over his mouth and his breath would reek of alcohol.

The daytime was broken into segments of practical duties such as cleaning, scrubbing and washing dishes. Each day was also a regimental pattern of abuse, separation and depersonalisation. The younger boys tried very hard to be young boys. It must have been hard for us all in one way or another, no matter how tough our previous lives had been. The young general staff, for the most part, acted kindly towards us and they always seemed to have an air of 68

pity when they talked with you. A few older staff were really good people who did care for us the best they could. Many people will mention the same names when reflecting on those who did their best for us. Some staff however where hiding an addiction to child-sex. Many of them, over the years, became far too violent when their patience ran out. I witnessed boys being beaten, out of the sight of other staff and I occasionally witnessed an older boy retaliating. It was a good feeling to see a staff member suffer a bleeding nose or a kicked shin bone. My fellow care sibling, David, who has also written a book, was one of the boys brutally mistreated by a particular member of staff. David’s book is entitled ‘You Little Bastard’, and is available on my website.

A typical twenty four hours in The Home from Hell, as I experienced it, would involve several outbursts of violence between boys, leading to the medical box being produced and someone being slapped or reprimanded in some other way by the staff on duty. Many days included cruelty towards younger boys, and the silence of night was often broken with the sound of a boy whimpering under his bed sheets. There were regular outbursts of shouting and namecalling amongst different groups. Trips to outside school were a highlight of the week day for me. It was safe ground between the horrors of abuse left behind and the daily trauma of being targeted by parents, teachers and other children.

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Sexual abuse was part of my life, I knew it was wrong and I did not like it. I have struggled, as an adult, with the feelings of guilt and shame. Telling someone did not seem an option. I don’t know how other boys dealt with it. I just blocked it all out of my mind until I was much older. Some boys were known to be ‘bummers’, and you kept clear of them if you could. Colin was the one we all especially kept away from. I remember one particular occasion, sitting in one of the smelly toilet cubicles. I was still, like a statue; silent, scared to breath as I listened to the painful cries of a young new boy being raped in the next-door cubicle. I could hear the thuds of his body as he was thrust against the wall of the cubicle. I could see the shadow of his attackers under the gap, and I heard his agonised cries of pain. I wanted to help him but was scared to move.

Looking back at my time in The Home from Hell, I understand now how I became a daydreamer and an exaggerator who was obsessed with sex, frightened of men, and totally devoid of any trust towards anyone. That place was like a kid factory that took in damaged children, and mostly churned out completely fucked up teenagers. The competition between the boys was immense and unhealthy. If you wanted respect from the other boys, you had to have a bigger dick than the next lad in the showers or you had to have stolen more things, shagged more girls, and you had to be able to fight better than any new lad. When I arrived at The Home I was a non-smoker, I did not masturbate, and I had never been a violent 70

person. My nickname after a few hours of arrival was ‘Ponsonby’. I was a ‘Scouser’ with a posh way of talking. When I left I was known as ‘Twiggy’ because I was so tall and skinny.

All my sexual boundaries had been removed and I had become morally corrupt, just like many of my peers and carers. After initially spending my time there as a victim, I learned how to victimise, and I was soon amongst the lads who regularly bullied the weaker ones, especially the new boys. A skinhead haircut, a few tattoos and plenty of fags for trading, was all you needed to get in with the bullies. On one occasion a lad called Stuart arrived. He was bigger than me but I had the psychological advantage, and I did not waste any time establishing my authority over him. We had a scrap behind the old oak tree at the front of The Home. I repeatedly kicked him, egged on by the other boys, until he submitted. We often acted like pack of wolves at a kill, and we were reminiscent of the kids in the film ‘Lord of the Flies’. His face was a mess and I was a hero. Some months later, when Stuart had gained his bearings and confidence, he beat me up.

Years later, after we had both left The Home, we met at a petrol station in Wullerton. I was posing in my big American Pontiac car, which I was buying from my friend Andy, and Stuart was in his smart company car, and wearing a suit. We chatted briefly and arranged to meet in Wroxham some time later. When we met, we had 71

a good night drinking and reminiscing about the old days. We both nervously disclosed to each other the details of the abuse we had suffered as little boys. Sadly, a few months later, Stuart was found hanging in his garden shed, apparently another victim of suicide, just like so many other boys that had shared The Home from Hell.

I finally escaped from the shadow of Mr Shush and the institutional life, for the second time, when I was fifteen years old. I was given a packed lunch and some cash, and then dropped off at Wroxham train station. I set off on a new chapter in my life, burdened with a mental and emotional illness that had not been diagnosed. I was a scarred boy, with a mountain of confusion regarding life in general, myself in particular, and my sexuality. Life was not over for me, it was simply a new start. It took a further thirty three years to unravel the knotted ball of anger, loneliness, confusion, mistrust, and hatred that I had carried in my heart and in my mind.

I could write a separate book about The Home from Hell. Over the years I have recollected a jumble of horrible memories from that time of my life. TV programmes have since been made about the goings on in that particular home, some of which I later featured in. Over the years I have collected a lot of documents and press cuttings that expose the sexual and physical abuse that some people experienced at The Home from Hell. Sometime in the future, I may write another book detailing the extraordinary stories of other 72

individuals who survived the horrors of that particular corner of hell. If

you

have

a

story

to

tell,

[email protected]

73

please

email

me

at:

5 Terror in Traquay My new life in Traquay got off to a bad start when I arrived at my mother’s new home in Ribblecombe. She had promised me a good life with her and her new husband. It had sounded like heaven. She was pregnant and her husband Robert, who was actually away most of the time, was the only man I ever really liked. He worked in the construction trade and had originally been a guest at my grandmother’s guesthouse. He and my mother had gotten together when I was in The Home. Robert was always kind to me and he tried his best to be fatherly. I started to dress, walk, and talk like him when I first met him, and even dyed my hair blonde like his at one point. He used to look perplexed when he visited me in The Home and brought me gifts. Amelia presented herself as a happy woman who now wanted to play at being a mum with me. She wanted ‘happy families’, but I was having none of it. I had agreed to leave the home and I was playing the role of the happy son, but secretly I had ideas of my own.

We lived in a flat which was located in a very nice part of

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Ribblecombe. The flat had a downstairs entrance, and at the bottom of the road there was a school. Initially, the relationship between us was all was a happy one, but this only lasted for a few weeks. Amelia King had acquired her third surname and had now become Amelia Linton. I took the new name and called myself Nigel Linton. I was fourteen, institutionalised, and one of the ‘fucked up’ kids that had left The Home. I was now living two lives; one, as the returning prodigal son, lapping up all the guilt-ridden attention from my mother, and the other as a kid looking for trouble and action, whenever I was away from Amelia’s manufactured paradise.

She sent me to the local school, and the kids were told in advance that I had been in a home. This set me up for failure before I’d even arrived. The good kids kept away from me, the bad ones wanted to test my mettle, and the teachers kept their distance. At this time, along with my new-found friends, I was experimenting with barbiturate drugs which we used to get from a biker in Traquay Bay, the next town along the coast. It did not take long before I was in trouble and one weekend, I broke into the school when it was closed. I had broken in through a window in the sports hall and had climbed the ropes to the ceiling to gain access to a loft above the school hall.

A girl that I had taken there for sex had told her parents about the hideaway and they, in turn, had informed the police. The police found me hiding in the loft, took me home and I was given a 75

warning. Amelia tried to give me a lecture about my behaviour and my lack of respect for her. I lit up a fag, blew the smoke in her face and told her to fuck off. I was out for revenge and intended to cause her as much heartbreak as I could. Deep down I loved her but at that time it was easier for me to hate her.

I met my cousin, Nathan, while I was in Traquay. It turned out that my auntie Anne had also moved to the area. She was a chiropodist and had her own business. Nathan was older than me and was hanging around with a group of bikers. His sister, my other cousin Mary, was also a biker. With them, I got involved with more drugs and spent a lot of time with a gang of would-be Hells Angels who called themselves The Pirates. I went to parties, drank lots of beer, and experimented with many different types of drugs, mostly LSD. I had a lot of sex with older girls in the gang and even tried to have sex with my cousin Mary, but she was not up for it.

On one occasion, Nathan took me to a very nice house, to the birthday party of a friend of a friend. Nathan, with me in tow, turned up uninvited, along with a few bikers who proceeded to bring a bit of excitement to the party. I was high on LSD and very drunk when I was told to go into a bedroom at the top of the stairs. I climbed across the bodies on the stairs and went into the room as Nathan had told me to. He was my hero. In the room an older girl, about eighteen or so, was lying naked on the bed. She was one of the biker’s girlfriends. 76

She pulled me on top of her and took my jeans off. I do not remember much, but I can recall her big hairy vagina, and the smell of her sweat. She was a real greaser!

My mother eventually got fed up of the continual arguments with me and gave up. At one point I had threatened to throw her down the stairs when she tried to stop me going out. I bunked school most days, and was coming and going whenever I wanted to. Nathan and I spent a lot of time together in Traquay. One evening, we got so lost in a haze of drugs and drink; we ended up in a small lake in a park. We were up to our waists in water, pretending to be ducks. Someone shouted at us and then called the police. We waited for the police to arrive and then ran at them with Nathan’s whip. Nathan often carried a whip and was known by the bikers as ‘Nathan the whip’. We both kicked the police car and Nathan whipped the policemen. After running away, we hid on a bus shelter roof. That same night we kicked out every single coloured light on a massive hillside flower display in the middle of Traquay bay.

While I was with living with my mother, one of her new neighbours had asked if I would help her to decorate her bathroom. She was the wife of a bookie and had a baby. She was very attractive and when she was out of the house I used to look through her underwear draw. I did the work for the money and spent many days helping her to decorate and paint. I watched her every move as she 77

painted. I imagined her naked and wanted to shag her over the bath. She eventually asked me to leave when I had plucked up the courage to reach out and caress her breast while trying to kiss her. She was shocked and I was embarrassed.

The drugs never really got a grip of me, even when I was selling them in local pubs for the bikers. I got fed up of being sick and out of my face. I drifted away from Nathan when I met a new mate who called himself Skinner. He was into fighting and was obsessed with the up-and-coming band called Slade, who were then skinheads, Noddy Holder looking very different without hair. A Clockwork Orange was also on at the pictures, and Skinner acted like the main character in that film. Together we got into fights and really enjoyed the violence and the chases. We took to wearing crombi style overcoats, bowler hats and white tee shirts with braces. Of course, we also wore red Dr. Martin boots to complete the look. When bored, we would get drunk and walk through town laughing and terrorising folk as they walked past. We even put makeup on our faces and mascara on our eye lids.

On one occasion, we were in a sweet shop and I grabbed some cigarettes from behind the counter. The shop keeper saw me do it so Skinner punched him in the face and told me to run. We were running for a long time and eventually bunked onto a train and hid in the toilet. After a few stations had passed, the conductor started 78

knocking hard on the door and telling us to open it. Skinner went out first and I stayed hiding in the toilet. That was the last time I saw Skinner. I continued on the train and ended up back in Havenhead. It was a long journey and I did not really know were I was heading.

This journey brought an end to my time in Traquay. I abandoned the new home with Amelia, Robert and my newborn sister, Celia. Despite the past experiences with Mr Shush, I headed back to The Home from Hell. It was my home and I guess it was the lesser of many evils. It was on that journey that I came up with a plan for a new life.

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6 Running Backwards I eventually turned up at The Home looking quite scruffy, and I was very tired and very hungry. I walked into the kitchen area late at night and demanded food. The main cook in the home, who we called ‘Dilly’, was a very kind and gentle woman. She had always had a soft spot for some of the boys and she was very pleased to see me. I told her that my mother was a cow and that I was very unhappy living with her in Traquay. I wanted food, a bed, some rest, and I wanted to see Mr Shush. Dilly gave me food and let me sleep in the staff bedroom that night. The next day I was taken by a member of staff to see Mr Shush in his new office in Wroxham. I was nervous but determined. He kept me waiting in reception for a long time. Whilst on my train journey, I had worked out in my mind that I would demand £10,000 from him so I could start a new life. I intended to blackmail him for my silence about what he had done to me. I was terrified as I sat outside his plush office, and I remember my heart beating fast.

I was eventually shown in and a lady gave me a cup of tea. I 80

did not say a word. Mr Shush, who was calmly sitting at his big desk, told me that he was pleased that I had come home. He said he had spoken to my mother. He told me I could stay in a new home he had opened, but I had to go and work on a farm and pay for my keep while I was there. I just said ‘thank you‘, without question, and walked out of his office in silence. I did not have the bottle to blackmail him. He seemed so powerful and confident that I just could not bring myself to challenge him.

The new home he had opened was worse than the original. It was a big old mansion house on the edge of a small Welsh village. The actor Roger Moore had a house just a few miles away. The lads in this home were older and most of them had jobs. Some were working in the home as kitchen staff and general labourers. I hated it there. I did a few weeks work on a local farm and I kept myself to myself. The manager, Rob, was a kind man who always spoke in a gentle manner. He was an ex-policeman who had at one time been an alcoholic. He gave me extra fags and food when I asked for them. The other lads spoke very highly of him. I met Rob again later in my life when he had become a Christian and was singing in a country and western group.

We subsequently travelled to Romania together to help ill and abused children. He did not remember me from the home but I remembered him, and I reminded him that I was around when Mr 81

Shush had turned up at the mansion house with a suitcase full of money, asking him to keep it safe. Mr Shush was hiding his money for some reason unknown to anyone at the time. Rob continued as a good manager for many years after I had left. My stay at this particular home was short lived, and it wasn’t long before I upped and left.

My life was yet again about to change as I waited for my train at Wroxham station. I was finally leaving The Home for the last time. With my cash, packed lunch and train ticket, I was moving on again, and heading towards Havenhead to meet my cousin Nathan. He had returned to live in Havenhead and had a bedsit in a house that was occupied by hippy types who did drugs all day. He had no idea that I was going to turn up on his doorstep like a lost soul, but when I arrived, he said I could stay for a while.

Nathan’s bedsit was in Lark Road East in Havenhead. It was a very old house with seven floors, each floor having at least one bedsit on it. Nathan had the top floor and he shared it with his girlfriend Kirsty. I soon became an accepted part of the household. Everyone knew each other and most nights were spent listening to Black Sabbath or Led Zeppelin while smoking dope or dropping acid tabs. California sunshine was the usual drug of the time. Again, this period of my life is a bit hazy, probably because of the drugs. We spent a lot of time sleeping in the day and doing drugs at night. No 82

one had a job, so being chilled out was the norm. On dole day, we would go to a small co-op store nearby and steal as much food as possible. Nathan taught me to steal tins of Heinz Toast Toppers. I would wear his RAF coat and fill the inside pockets as quickly as I could while the others kept the assistants distracted. This is how we lived; drugs, booze, music, sex, sleep, and stealing.

Nathan often went into Havenhead town to score drugs from a supplier, but would never let me go. He always came back with a roll of sticky tape that had been re-rolled with dozens of LSD tablets stuck on it every few inches. Nathan took me with him when supplying these tablets to his customers for 50p each. We always had a good supply for ourselves and the profit kept us in tobacco and booze. We stole our LP’s from town, and Nathan’s dole paid for everything else.

On one occasion, Nathan had left me in his flat with his girlfriend and I remember getting into bed and having sex with her. She was later petrified of him finding out. On another occasion, we all took two LSD tablets each and had a really bad trip. In those days, the effects lasted around twelve hours. I can vaguely remember dancing in the local cemetery. Nathan stole a large black chain off a family crypt and we took it back to his flat. Whilst we sat listening to Black Sabbath, I thought I heard the chain rattling in the cupboard and I was convinced that I could hear screams coming out of the 83

stereo speakers. This freaked me out and I ran out of the house. I recall hearing an aeroplane in the sky and thinking it was going to land on me. I also remember being chased by garden gnomes and midgets through City Park.

During this short period, and unknown to me at the time, my mother had also returned to live in Havenhead. My drug days ended after another bad trip when I woke up half naked under my mother’s car in her driveway. I remember on that occasion that I had thought I was being chased by a man who had a dog's head. The drug scene was not for me and I was getting fed up of life again. I convinced my mother to let me lodge at my Nan’s for a short while. She reluctantly agreed and charged me a weekly rent. I got my act together for a short while and got a job with a building company named Haynes Builders. My first real job was using a Kango hammer to rip up a concrete roof. It was very hard work but the money was good.

I soon got a bedsit of my own and started to live independently. It was a grotty room with a Belling cooker, a wardrobe and a single bed. But it was mine, and that meant a lot to me.

I continued to work with the builders and did odd jobs as well, settling into some sort of routine. I also made extra money selling stuff to people I knew. I gave up drugs and booze and just worked 84

hard. I did not enjoy being alone so I placed an advertisement in a local paper named the Worral Independent. The advertisement was in the personal section and read something like, ‘Lonely male seeks female friends’. I had to go to the paper’s main office to collect letters from my box number each week. I was inundated with letters from women and I did my best to meet them all. I had sex with so many women that I can’t recall them all. A few were reasonable looking and some were not. I used a false name and made up a whole false life, telling them I was a successful bachelor with my own business.

One date I had was with a very fat girl who begged me to have sex with her, but I escaped out the back window of her house. Another encounter was with the daughter of a vicar. She was a sex maniac who basically shagged me silly in her parent’s front room. On another occasion, just I as I was getting frisky with an older woman, I realised that ‘she’ was a he. I shit myself and made the excuse of feeling ill in order to escape. That was a close one.

This ‘shagging’ fest went on for many weeks, and I soon became confident and eager for something more meaningful. My life was like the film, ‘Groundhog Day‘. I eventually cancelled the advertisement in the paper and started to look for sex partners in nightclubs instead.

Although I was still only fifteen, I was able to get into a 85

particular club in Havenhead that was a fleapit known as ‘The Cellar’. I was smartly dressed and looked confident. The bouncer let me in regularly and I always sat on my own in a corner of the club. I watched the older women dancing together, and they always seemed more approachable when I cast a smile their way. A few had approached me and after a dance, a chat, and a few drinks, I rarely left the club alone. I always kept to the same story about being a successful bachelor businessman and I often ended up in quite rough houses on various estates in Havenhead. On one occasion I was beaten up and chased by the husband of a woman who had taken me in a taxi to her house in Lenton. He had come home from his night job unexpectedly. Another time, a woman took me home and had sex with me while her husband watched. They were swingers. This may sound like a young man‘s fantasy, but my fantasy life was a reality, a true fiction of events that may be unbelievable to others. I was becoming more obsessed with sex. I think, underneath my confident façade, I was really looking for love and somewhere to belong. I needed to share my life with another human being.

One evening in the club, dressed in a new suit and looking quite dapper, I noticed a woman who I had seen a few times before. Her red dress had caught my eye. In the low lights of the club, she looked stunning. She was skinny and bore a striking resemblance to the singer Kate Bush. Little did I know that my life was about to drastically change yet again. The first few words that we exchanged 86

that night, as I danced and talked into her ear over the loud music, were the first words of many chapters that would change the destiny of both our lives.

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7 A Woman in a Red Dress Pamela, who later became my first wife, was a twenty seven year old mother of two. I was fifteen years of age, although I told everyone I was eighteen, and we hit it off straight away. Sexually, I was an adult in a child’s body, and I was obsessed with sex and the female form. Pamela in turn, had a ready-made family who needed a dad, and that was a bonus for me. Almost immediately after we had met in that seedy little club in Havenhead we saw each other everyday. Her ex-husband never found out about me, when I was staying in her house, even though he had often turned up unexpectedly in the early hours of the morning, banging on the door and shouting abuse at her. One morning he got very violent when Pamela answered the door to him, and this led to her insisting that we should escape Havenhead straight away. She was frightened of him and wanted to start a new life elsewhere. I recall lying in her bed listening to them arguing downstairs. I wanted to go and rescue her but I was scared to show my face in case he was a big bugger!

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The night I met Pamela, I bought her a Martini, and then we danced most of the night away. I smooth-talked her with a boyish charm, and I tried to emulate the great Cary Grant who, as a matter of interest, I am related too. His real name was Archie Leech and he was originally from Bristol. His real mother, Lillian, is one of my ancestors on my father’s side. That first night we met I thought I had got lucky when Pamela invited me to her house on the notoriously violent council estate known as The Lords, which is in Southall. I remember walking into her house in the early hours, quite drunk and ready for sex. As I entered her untidy house, I immediately noticed that the walls in her sparse lounge were peppered with holes. The holes, she explained to me later, were punch holes made by her husband Harold who she was soon to divorce. Pamela had been adopted as a young child and Harold was her ‘adoptive’ cousin.

Their relationship had broken down very quickly after they married and she said it was destined to fail, despite having two children. Both parties had filed for divorce on the grounds of adultery. The first night I spent with Pamela was a night of discovery for me, as far as sex was concerned. She was the first female that I had felt any ‘love’ for. She did things to me that I had never imagined and I became infatuated with her almost immediately. Although I had been sexually active from the age of eleven, my encounters had always been based on lustful sex, abuse or curiosity, and nothing 89

more. Being with Pamela was very different. She and her kids needed protecting and I wanted a family. I realise now that she was like a mother figure to me.

Pamela was very adventurous when it came to sex, and she introduced me to sex-talk, porn videos, sex-games, mutual genital shaving, and vibrators. Within months of meeting Pamela I thought I was in love forever, and it all felt like I was living life just like a ‘happy’ adult.

Within days of our first meeting, I had virtually moved in fulltime with Pamela and her kids. Two weeks later we were running away together on an exciting journey to a new life, which is what I had always wanted. It was on that day, after Harold’s violence at the door that, in a panic, we sold most of our possessions to a secondhand dealer. The items we sold included Pamela’s budgie and a rented television. We helped the second hand dealer to load his van and posted the keys to the council house back through the door. Pamela owed months of rent and hundreds of pounds on many catalogues so she was also keen to escape the burden of debt. No one knew where Pamela and her kids had gone, and I had no one to tell. My mother was now living in Mexico with Robert and Celia, and I had lost contact with Nathan. We asked the second-hand dealer to drop us all off at the nearest railway station. We sat in the back of his van with the kids huddled next to us. They were excited and we told 90

them we were going on a holiday. Pamela was in control, she had planned this escape before I had met her. I guess taking me along gave her confidence and I believe that she really wanted things to work out. With our pockets full of cash, around £700 as I recall, we ran away to Norpool. It was late April in 1974, and we left Overpool City station with just two suitcases that were filled with children’s clothes and toys, and a dozen or so shopping bags filled with personal stuff. Pamela had a family allowance book that she was going to cash when we arrived, before the Department of Social Security discovered she had left Havenhead.

When we arrived in Norpool we rented a small holiday flat. We lived in that flat for the rest of the holiday season. I was holding down a full time job as a security guard, at the Norpool Theme Beach, and I was acting as a ‘dad’ to her two children. I was sixteen and having sex each day, as routinely as brushing my teeth. Pamela was working as a waitress in the evenings and everything seemed fine. It was like a fairy tale. We all seemed happy and enjoyed the seaside entertainments. It was like a very long holiday away from our past, and we were isolated with only ourselves to worry about.

When I reflect on this period of my life I realise that Pamela was the second adult with whom I had a long-standing sexual relationship. The first was Mr. Shush, the wealthy male abuser who had taken my innocence without my permission when I was just 91

eleven years old. This second adult, Pamela, was also enjoying my young body. The important difference between these two adults is that Pamela had my permission, and I was a willing participant, even if I was only a child in the eyes of the law when we first had sex. In contrast, my abuser was an unwelcome intruder who invaded my mind and body for his self-gratification.

My time with Pamela was to come to an abrupt end some five years later, after we were married and had two kids of our own. The run of luck and escapism that we had enjoyed during our first two years together ran out once the cash had dried up. We became homeless and spent a day wandering around the streets of Norpool. Pamela finally decided that she should present herself to the social services as a homeless single parent. We agreed that I would wait outside their offices and whatever happened, she would let me know where she was going to be that night if they agreed to look after her. I spent hours standing outside that building in the freezing rain. I remember fighting the desire to run away and start again without Pamela and her kids.

Eventually I saw Pamela and the kids come out of the building with a man and they got into a car. She turned and looked at me as they drove away. Just for a moment, I was relieved that she had gone. It was then, as the car drove away, that I noticed a piece of paper lying on the ground at the spot where she had got into the car with 92

the kids. Something inside me knew that it was a note for me. I picked it up and it had two words written on it in Pamela’s writing. It read ‘Sea View’ and nothing else.

I knew this must be the name of a hotel or a guesthouse, but where? Norpool had thousands of them. I walked the full length of the Norpool seven mile sea front. I looked at every single hotel, B&B, and guesthouse. Not one of them was called ‘Sea View’. I was ready to give up and wanted to run away and escape Norpool, but I could not bring myself to abandon the kids.

I went into a small café and asked the lady if I could have a cup of tea for free. I told her my life story and she listened. This lady lived in the next town along the coast, called Clevewood. She said that she knew of a small hotel there named Sea View. It was a long shot but I walked the remaining few miles to Clevewood in the dark. It was very late when I got there and I was shaking with cold and feeling very lost and alone. I spent that night sleeping in a pavilion on the sea front.

The next day I woke when a family walked into the pavilion. I went to the public toilets and had a wash. I was starving and still very cold. I walked around for a while and found a road called Sea View road. As I walked up the road I saw the two kids running out of a laundrette, shouting ‘Daddy, Daddy!’ Behind them I saw Pamela 93

with a big smile on her face. The kids seemed very happy to see me. She gave me a fag and a Mars bar and explained to me what had happened. The social services had placed her in the hotel and had given her money to buy some clothes for the kids. She had a room with a double bed and bunk beds. The hotel owner’s were called Jack and Tammy, and they were very kind to Pamela and the kids.

I spent another night in the pavilion and met with them again the next day. Pamela had got some money and she bought me a slap up breakfast in a café close by. We came up with a plan for me to arrive at the Sea View that day, pretending to be on holiday. It was vital that the kids did not call me dad, or let on that they knew me. Bribes of sweeties and telling them it was a game secured their silent cooperation.

I got a job on a fairground for a while, and also worked in a caravan park, tending the lawns. I paid my hotel bill and kept up the pretence that Pamela and I did not know each other prior to staying at the hotel. Pamela usually sneaked into my room at night. Jack and Tammy thought it was wonderful when we finally told them that we had started seeing each other. They put us on the same breakfast table and gave us a bigger room to share. They promised not to tell social services, who were still paying to house Pamela and her kids each month.

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Pamela was later offered a caravan on the same site where I was working and I secretly moved in with her. She was claiming benefits and I was earning cash in hand. It seemed that we were back on track, but throughout this period, the relationship started to deteriorate and I was beginning to wish I had never met her. The age difference was starting to become an issue, and I guess I was growing up and realising the real responsibilities of caring for a family.

I was seeing a girl who worked in the caravan club bar. She and I had sex in the female toilets and even in Pamela’s caravan when she was out shopping. That girl was very daring and loved sex when it was risky. When I was just seventeen, a chance meeting with someone she had told me about led me to enquire about the possibility of working on deep sea trawlers. Crew members were being sought in the next town of Fleetlea. Yet another dramatic change to my life was just around the corner.

After a short course in a Royal Navy Nautical College, I became a deep sea trawler man, and quite naively signed up for a trip to Iceland. I originally thought it would be with fishing rods. I did this job for quite a few years and I became fully embroiled in the fisherman’s way of life. I started as a ‘Brassy’ and worked up to being a fully qualified Deckhand. Being away for long periods was a great way of escaping a life with Pamela that had become boring and continually filled with arguments and mistrust. Despite our 95

differences, we did however get married in a local registry office, where Jack and Tammy from the hotel were the witnesses. We also had two children together; my sons Kevin and Nathan were born while I was a trawler man. My wages were good, but they were soon eaten up after each trip to sea. I was feeding, housing, and clothing five dependents, in addition to regular heavy drinking sessions with the crew when we were ashore. I had my life at sea and Pamela had her life ashore. We met on a monthly basis for sex and an argument in between trips to sea.

We had rented a council house and settled to life amongst the fishing community. I was slowly burying my past deeper and deeper in my mind, although I did try to cut my wrists on one occasion while I was at sea. Like many times in my life, something would spark a memory of the past and this would lead to a period of selfdoubt and manic depression. When I cut my wrists, I was drunk and later told everyone I was just fed up of life. I did not want to discuss the past with anyone. My condition is now called Bipolar Disorder.

My life as a trawler man may be the subject of another book in the future. I had a separate and very exciting life while at sea. It was very dangerous and the crew were like brothers. We worked hard, played hard, and operated like a ‘family’. I have many yarns to tell about that experience.

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During that period of time with Pamela and the kids, I was always trying money-making ideas. I did mobile DJ work with a guy who now has his own radio show on local radio. I started a sign writing business, a small printing business and I published my own children’s book. It was called the adventures of Joe Boe. When the Cod War was taking place, it became very hard to get signed on to a ship so I subsidised my income with these ideas, none of which made any substantial money. I had a shipmate called Ivan who was a bit of a ‘nut’ by any standard, but was also a real buddy. Together we did garden work and school ground work when we were not on board ship. We had each bought motorbikes, and spent most of our time racing each other across the fields when we should have been working.

We eventually lost a contract with a local public school when we sank their tractor in a bog. We signed on the same ships and spent a lot of time together. We often shared sex with girls we knew. I was the confident one who would persuade girls to have a threesome with us. On one occasion, when we had arranged to meet two girls on a day we were heading off to Iceland, we pretended that Ivan had fallen into the bay as the ship was leaving. He made me punch him while he was standing on the back of the boat deck, outside the railings. I then raised the alarm and jumped in to ‘rescue’ him and we were subsequently returned home. Ivan had failed to mention that he could not swim, so I did actually rescue him for real 97

as he very nearly drowned in the ships turbulence. The ‘rescue’ was featured in the local press, and I was hailed as a hero for saving him from drowning. The girls never did turn up for the date.

I can’t say I was a good husband or father whilst I was a trawler man, because I was not. I did not know how to be. I was just a hard working teenager and I always supplied just enough money to get by. Pamela was sinking into her old ways, with her Martini addiction, and we were both having sex with other people. My exploits with chance meetings that led to instant sex were just part of my life. I can recall five particular women who I met with secretly over that period. It was when I caught Pamela in bed with a guy that things got really bad. I guess that incident would have been the end, but an unexpected letter in the post changed the future in an instant.

My mother had married Robert and moved abroad, but sadly he had died and my mother and sister had returned to Havenhead while I was living in Fleetlea. I spoke to her on the telephone immediately and arranged to visit her the same day. She was back at Nan’s guesthouse, so I jumped on the train and went to see her in Havenhead.

Nana Dora subsequently died a few weeks later and my mother suggested that I move back to Havenhead with Pamela and the four kids. We grabbed this opportunity. We did not say it to each other at 98

the time, but I believe we both saw the opportunity as a last chance to make things work out, back in our home town. We had a rented house in Fleetlea so we simply repeated the exercise of selling up and disappearing, almost overnight. The guesthouse was subsequently converted into two large flats and we all moved in. I then got a job selling antique collectors’ books on the Isle of Man and Pamela tried to re-settle, in what was a very nice home, back in Havenhead.

It did not last for long. Whilst I was away, Pamela and my mother just argued and fought with each other over all sorts of things. My mother would call me and complain about the mess and the noise, whilst Pamela would call me and complain about my mother’s constant nagging and interfering with the kids. I was glad to be on the road with a group of sales girls, living it up selling books and having even more sexual encounters.

Eventually this bubble burst and everything began tumbling down again. Firstly, I was arrested in Leeds with the girls I was travelling with. It turned out that the company we were working for was owned by an Australian con man that was taking the customer’s money for the books we sold, but never shipping them. We were released after hours of questioning. Secondly, I returned home unexpectedly to find Pamela having a relationship with an old school friend of mine called Terry. She then left after a big argument, taking her two kids with her, and I was left with Kevin and Nathan on my 99

own. They were both toddlers. Gordon and Teresa did not want to leave them behind.

My mother promised to help me look after Kevin and Nathan so I could get a new job. However, after a few weeks, I realised that she was not looking after them. They needed their real mum and siblings. Pamela had been to see them a few times and she had begged me to let them go with her. I reluctantly agreed and helped her move in to her new council flat. We had agreed that I could visit anytime and I agreed to give her money for the kids without telling the social security.

I guess this is when I sat up and took notice of my life and circumstances. I was now twenty years old and my life, my head and my finances were in a mess. I had to do something to turn things around. I had to re-invent myself and make a new start. I was now a weekend dad and had time to work. Pamela and I eventually divorced on the grounds of irretrievable breakdown of marriage because of adultery. This is something we agreed to do because it was the quickest and cheapest route. We did see each other regularly when I visited the kids at weekends. We even slept together on one occasion.

Pamela’s new flat was a terrible place on a small estate in the worse part of Havenhead. She had to put chairs against the front 100

door at night to protect her and the kids from drunken men knocking on the door. I hated seeing my kids live like that, but it was what Pamela wanted. I can honestly say that although she lived in what I considered squalor, she did her best with limited resources and a limited understanding of parental responsibilities. She loved her kids and would do anything to protect them. Her heart was in the right place. I did my best to visit regularly with money and gifts, but to be honest I did not do as much as I should have done.

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8 Four Girls and a Baby After Pamela was settled into her new life with the kids, I decided to try my hand at graphic design. I had always been artistic and I had completed a visual design course at the Brayburn College of Technology and Design whilst living in Norpool. Coupled with this, I had always had an interest in advertising. I initially got a job with a printer that my mother knew, and this was just the start that I needed. I moved up the ladder quite quickly and I soon managed to secure a position with a major advertising and marketing company. However, during the same period, I had also met a new woman and had started a new business of my own.

I met Bernadette in very unusual circumstances. She had been having an affair with one of my married bosses. He was supposed to meet her secretly one particular day, when his lungs collapsed, and I was subsequently sent by him to tell her what had happened. This led to me not only having tea at her house, but also to helping myself to his ‘supper’! Bernadette was a very loving and caring woman who

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I really enjoyed being with. We told my boss that we were now an item and we started to see each other openly. He wasn’t very pleased, but he couldn’t really say anything, being a married man himself. I soon moved into Bernadette’s house and got my feet under her table. She had a young daughter who I got on very well with, and things seemed really great. My kids would come and stay at weekends and we had many happy times together as one big family. Bernadette was always supportive and often gave me the money to set up new business ideas.

The problem with the relationship was that she was twelve years older than me and although sex was great with her, I hated being considered her toy boy. When we went out, people often thought she was my mother. To be honest, I was very embarrassed whenever we were with her older friends. She always treated me well, but it was like being her son, not her man. I can’t say anything horrible about Bernadette because she smothered me with her love and affection, as indeed did the rest of her family.

Whilst with Bernadette, I suffered a minor breakdown. We had been invited to her brother’s house for an evening meal. He was a very successful businessman who lived on a private estate near Chadster. The other guests were all professionals and much older than I was. One of the female guests turned out to be a social worker, 103

and I took an immediate interest in her. During the evening, I had started to rub her leg under the table and she had reciprocated. This went on for most of the evening and we all got very drunk. The woman then started to speak about her experiences in social work, and began talking about the home in north Wales that I had been in. Her opinions about young people in care started to annoy me and by the early hours I started to argue with her. It ended with a very embarrassing showdown and I stormed out of the room. The next day, back at Bernadette’s, I fell into a very unhappy mood and remained very depressed for many weeks. I drank a lot and was not easy to live with for quite sometime.

After this event I started a new business, with Bernadette’s help and money, and we enjoyed a level of success for a while running a busy shop in Havenhead. I had met my real dad again, who was a businessman, and he had also helped me to make contacts and start a shop similar to his. Later, after making some money, Bernadette and I joined an American company called Amway, and I became fully absorbed in the training seminars that they held. It was like a religion and I enjoyed every minute of it. It was almost as if I had found another ‘family’ to belong to. We did not make a lot of money but I really learned a lot from that company, particularly with regards to marketing and selling.

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We met another couple at one of the meetings who lived close by and this led to another secret affair between me and the female. She would come to the house while Bernadette was at work and we would have sex on the stairs.

We sold the shop business, and then sold Bernadette’s house to fund a new project. We purchased a derelict building in Waverly, and set up accommodation for ourselves with a general grocery store below it. This proved very profitable at first and everything was going very well. My mother had also got involved as an investor with this venture along with her new chap Arnold, who was her fourth husband. He was the builder who had converted the guesthouse into two flats. He did most of the renovation work on the new building, for a reasonable price, and I helped. Amelia invested her money, and Arnold took it back for his labour and materials.

After the shop opened, my mother lost interest and my relationship with Bernadette was starting to crumble. I just could not trust her after I had found out that she had lied to me about another relationship she had been having when I first met her. I was no angel, but this was the root of my further withdrawal from the relationship with her.

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Looking back, I realise the double standards that operated within my life. I always felt that I was loyal to my partner as far as ‘love’ was concerned when I was in a relationship, and I would separate my sexual activity with others by compartmentalising it as just sex. However, I required that the people I ‘loved’ would have to be absolutely honest and loyal to me in every way. This was a crazy mind-set that obviously would not work in any relationship. I guess my problems with relationships may have had their origins in my experiences with Mr Shush when I was a child. On one hand he was my saviour and protector who looked after me, and on the other hand he was the monster who had secret sexual activity with me, against my will.

I took on a Saturday girl to help in the shop, her name was April and I fell in ‘lust’ with her the moment I saw her. She was just sixteen, slim, gorgeous and shy. At first she was very quiet with me, but as we worked together more and more, we developed a relationship and ended up having sex. She was young but sexually experienced, and I was infatuated with her. We shared our troubles and worries about our past lives. She had troubles with her family and school, and I was happy to be her saviour and soul mate. We had some good times together, and I gradually became increasingly obsessed with her and spent all my time and money on the relationship. I purchased an American car from a friend and started

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to collect April from school in it. I always had a fag lit and ready for her when she got into the car. We went to clubs, danced, drank, and spent as much time together as we could. Inevitably the shop suffered and Bernadette, who knew about the relationship, was not happy.

April became pregnant, just as we were forced to liquidate the business. Bernadette, my mother, and I, all lost our investment and I lost my only source of income. However, with a baby on the way, it was important that I was quick to get re-established. I rented a house and started a new business with a mate called Tommy. I married April and my son David was born. We lived as husband and wife for twelve weeks. Almost as soon as David was in my arms, things went very wrong between me and April. I can say now, with my aged wisdom and hindsight, that she was too young to settle down and my obsession with her must have been overbearing. Things went from bad to worse, and at one point I took an overdose when she had left the house with David, vowing that I would never see them again. It was a worried friend who broke the door to my house down, and found me unconscious and close to death. After this I managed to get my act together again. I had managed to get custody of David, but I really wanted to get back with April. This simply was not possible and I had to deal with losing her. We both made mistakes whilst we 107

were together, and I will not write about them here. I will say that she was a great person who has since proven to be a good mum to her other kids and she has now developed a relationship with David. Our relationship was not based on anything real and I should have realised this at the time. However, we produced a fantastic son together and we both now have him to love.

My new business took off very quickly. We were in the secondhand trade and the money was rolling in. I bought a Jaguar and enjoyed living it up in the clubs and pubs. One day, in the late afternoon, just before closing one of the shops, a girl walked into the showroom carrying a baby on her hip. I remember the scene as if it was yesterday. She was wearing a thin dress and with the light from the street behind, I could clearly see the silhouette of her body. Both she and the baby were crying and the girl looked desperate. I gave her a chair to sit on, and after she calmed down, she explained that all of her furniture and many of her personal belongings were in my shop. It turned out that I had purchased them in a house clearance the day before. Her boyfriend, who was a junkie, had sold them to me when she was not there.

I agreed to return her goods and I took some back to her house straight away. After unloading her stuff she told me she had no money for the baby or herself, so I bought fish and chips, and had tea 108

with her. We had sex that night in her flat. Her name was Laura and her daughter was called Veronica. Laura had a tanned body and was very passionate. A few days later her boyfriend was found dead in a house in Denton, having overdosed on heroin. I gave Laura money to go to the funeral and looked after her daughter Veronica for the day.

The business grew bigger and I opened five more shops. Money was easy to make, and having a good time was always on the agenda. I gave Laura a job in one of the shops and we started seeing each other. She was stunning looking and I liked being with her. She helped me to get legal custody of my son David by her agreeing to say that she was looking after him for me, and this led to us living together in a flat that I rented.

Eventually we bought a house and lived there with her little girl and my son David. She also helped me look after my eldest son Kevin when he returned to live with me. He had turned up in a taxi, having come all the way from Rochester after his mother and sister had had a fight that had frightened him. It was later agreed that he could stay with me and Laura. He was riddled with fleas and scabies, his clothes stank of urine and he was generally dishevelled and thin. Laura bought him new clothes and invested a lot of time and love into his life. He started a new school and settled with us. My only regret is that I did not get hold of my other son, Nathan, who wanted 109

to stay with his mum, and I had to accept that.

Whilst setting up home with Laura, I had started a secret affair with her sister Madeline. This was a purely sexual affair. We first met when Laura had introduced us, a few weeks after she had come into my shop. I really cared about Laura and her daughter, but I knew I did not love her. I still had feelings for April and secretly wanted to be with her and no one else. Laura was easy to live with and she was very loyal to me. She was also a great mum to my son David and I have no bad feelings toward her at all. I know I hurt her feelings when we separated and I regret that.

Madeline was an addiction that I could not shake, and we saw each other as often as we could. I helped her to get a flat of her own which became our love nest. I also gave her a job in another of my shops. With Madeline, it was pure lust on both our parts and the sex, which we had at every opportunity, was always fantastic. On one occasion we had sex in the back of a van we were painting, whilst Laura and her mother were less than twenty feet away in the house. On another occasion we had sex behind the counter in the shop, with customers on the next floor up. We had sex hundreds of times; the more daring it was, the more we enjoyed it. We literally ravished each other daily, sometimes hourly.

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Later, Madeline turned up in my life with a vengeance in an attempt to get me back. She turned into a ‘bunny boiler’ and caused us a lot of trouble. Apart from sending a stream of taxis and the fire brigade on many occasions to annoy us, she once called to say she would kill herself if I did not go to her. I did not go and she took an overdose. She gave my name as her next of kin and the hospital called and interrupted me in a business meeting. I told them I had nothing to do with her. When she left hospital she tried again to contact me on several occasions. Eventually, Laura gave her a warning and we never heard from her again for a long time.

Business started to fall and I was tired of my business partner Tommy. I did not trust him after I had discovered that he was selling washing machines on the side and keeping the money for himself. On principle, I forced the closure of the business. I then set up a new business with a friend named Andy, a single parent, who was to become a life long friend. We set up a dating agency in his house and it took off straight away.

It was called Dial-a-Date and we advertised in the local press. The problem we faced was that hundreds of men paid to join our service but we had very few female members join. In order to get the £25 joining fee, we had to supply at least five potential dates to those who had registered. Because we were severely lacking in female 111

members, we simply made them up! We literally sat and wrote out details for a hundred or so ‘make believe’ women for our members to write to. It was risky but it worked. We sat for hours answering letters, pretending to be the women on our membership list. Everyday we rushed to the mailbox to collect the money from lonely men seeking companionship. Little did they know that they would get letters from make believe women. To add insult to injury, we also charged them 25p for every letter they received.

We met a few of the ‘real’ women ourselves and pretended to be members from the Dial-a-Date service. I had few close escapes, but we did get lucky on the odd occasion. Needless to say, the business soon dried up when people did not get any real dates. As this business started to fail, Andy mentioned that he had heard that British Telecom was being forced to give premium rate services to private entrepreneurs to run as businesses. This was to be our next venture, and life was about to take yet another big turn.

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9 Sex on the phone, money in the bank

During March 1987, while I was still living with Laura and Veronica, I set up a Limited Company with my friend Andy. We had managed to convince a woman we knew to invest £5,000 into a new venture. Our business plan was to set up a premium rate dial-andlisten service locally, in the Ferryside area. It enabled people to dial a special 0077 number to listen to dating advice and single parent advice. The cost per call was 25p per minute and British Telecom took half of this as their commission.

With the investors’ money in our bank account, we managed to convince British Telecom that we were fully funded and we were subsequently licensed and had five unique premium numbers, to which we added recorded messages. We were told that we were the first people in the United Kingdom to have such a licence and that we could expect to make a considerable profit from the service. Excited at the prospect of cash, we eagerly launched the business through 113

local advertising. We lied to just about every newspaper in the area to get credit for our advertising, and we were soon up and running without spending a penny of the investor’s cash. The first month was slow, but it was better than the original Dial-a-Date service. I had signed on as unemployed to create extra income, and I subsequently convinced the unemployment exchange to give me a grant of £2,000 to start a new business. Andy and Laura did the same and together we raised a further £6,000 pounds.

The service was gaining customers slowly in the first few weeks. I had a moment of inspiration one evening when discussing things through with Andy, and suggested that we put real people on the end of the telephones to talk with the callers, instead of the recorded messages. We looked carefully at the idea and decided to give it a try. We told British Telecom what we were planning and they were not convinced that it would work. I designed new advertisements and we begged a few girls we knew to come and answer the telephones. We just told them to talk and keep talking for as long as possible. We told them it was a helpline for single parents, but really, we had advertised the services in the personal sections as ‘Kitten Call 0077700700 - Call for a private chat between 6pm and 8pm any night.’ The first call came in. Then another, and then another. Before we knew it, all five lines were busy and it did not stop at 8pm. It carried on all through the night and over into the next

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morning. Responding quickly to this, we placed a recruitment advertisement in the job centre, for helpline telephonists, and we ordered more lines from British Telecom, who could not believe the amount of calls we were generating, and the revenue continued clocking up.

One problem we had was that BT only paid out to us every three months in arrears. We borrowed money from everywhere we could to pay staff and to place advertisements and we convinced the bank to give us a hefty overdraft. It helped that the bank manager was a friend of my dad’s. The crest of this wave just kept growing and growing, and by September we had made £17,154 profit and had moved into new premises. By December it was £37,510 and after a further fourteen months, the figure had grown to more than £618,000. By that time, I had bought out Andy and the original investor and I had appointed a new business partner named Hank. He had a building and a recording studio that was very helpful to the business. The company grew to around 300 fulltime staff working across five cities in the United Kingdom.

Andy set up another service on his own and went on to be very successful. Looking back, I realise now that this was one of the biggest mistakes I made. Andy was a good friend and very astute with money and I would have gained more from the business than I 115

did if I had stayed in partnership with him. My company expanded like a wild horse in a fast gallop. Somewhere along the way I lost the plot and became entangled in a business that was bigger than I could handle. The service was getting slated in the national press and I was constantly either on television or radio trying to defend the services we were offering. The so called ‘Sex Chatlines’ industry had become a multimillion pound business for British Telecom who had subsequently licensed many other operators who were in direct competition with my service. I won’t bore you with the details of the business. However, I will tell you of its effect on me and my life.

As Managing Director and Chairman of the company, I was responsible for every detail of the business. To put this in context, we were making £200,000 per month at the peak and had around 600 staff working in numerous offices around the country. I had a team of ten managers and a sub-level of around twenty more managers below them. My job had become an impossible task that was beyond my capabilities and experience. I was drinking hard, spending money hand over fist, and I was acting like some sort of tycoon millionaire. I had purchased several Mercedes and a Rolls Royce and had started living mostly in expensive hotels. Some people started referring to me as a “Champagne Charlie”.

My sex life had gone ballistic. I got involved in sexual 116

threesomes, foursomes, more-somes, and anything goes-somes! It was girls, girls, and more girls. One particular girl, who I will call Barbara, became my regular secret sex partner for a while. With her I explored the world of girl-on-girl sex sessions and we had a lot of fun together. I shared her with my brother Mike on many occasions. He had also invested in the business, but I had paid him back.

While all this was going on, Laura had settled for a life living at home looking after the children while I was ‘out to play’. She wanted more than I was offering in the love department. She loved me and put up with a lot. She was looked after very well, financially, as were the children, but that was all I gave them. I was lost in a haze of success, money, cars, girls, sex, booze, and high living. Looking back, I would say I was as a ‘Jerk-in-a-Merc’, with more money than sense.

Towards the end of the business, when I was fighting with just about everybody from the media to the government, I hired a personal secretary who was to travel with me. Her name was Alicia, or at least that was her name on the Chatlines. She was bright and efficient. She was not my usual type and I gave her the job in an attempt to organise my business activities and responsibilities. She and I became good friends very quickly. As my world collapsed around me, with the drink, the stress, and the bizarre lifestyle, it was 117

Alicia who stood by me and remained loyal. We travelled together many times, often staying in the same hotel. Alicia was able to cover my incompetence by keeping me on track with the important business issues. She was also acting as a go between when I wanted to arrange dates with any girls I had seen in the offices we were visiting regularly. Eventually, I realised that I was falling in love with this new girl in my life. It was something very powerful and I was frightened at first of how I felt about her. I slept with many more girls before I finally told Alicia my true feelings.

It was on a trip to Halecastle, travelling with Hank and another girl that I really fancied, that I approached Alicia. That night she accompanied me to a floating casino in Halecastle, and we sat and talked at the bar for most of the night. We returned to our hotel and I asked her to sit and talk with me in my suite. It sounds like a tall story, but I had been having palpitations for a few days and I was actually frightened of being on my own in case I died of a heart attack. Alicia knew this was not a ruse to get her in my bed. That night I disclosed to her all my life’s worries, and I even told her that I was an abuse victim. She loyally sat and listened until daylight came up. I was subsequently diagnosed with Wolfe Parkinson White Syndrome, which is a congenital heart condition.

It was not long before Alicia spent the night with me. We held 118

each other all night, lying awake and talking about life. I felt like my whole body and mind was at rest when I was with her. I was falling in love for the first time in my life, and I liked it. Her warm embrace and her gentle kisses made me feel whole. Just touching her hand would send shivers down my spine. To this day, her gentle touch and very presence makes me fall deeper and deeper in love with her.

The business soon became my enemy as it began to take much of my attention away from my new relationship with Alicia. After a while I sat with Laura and told her what was happening with me and Alicia. She reluctantly agreed to be our confidante. She even allowed us to meet and stay the night at the home Laura and I shared. This sounds bizarre now, even to me, but at the time, I was trying to appease everyone, whilst maintaining a good home for my kids with Laura, and also trying to experience this brand new type of relationship with Alicia.

I later rented a second home in an exclusive part of town which became a real love nest. We furnished it together and spent many times talking late into the night. I unloaded years of my most deeply held fears, and Alicia listened and comforted me throughout. I think I had some sort of breakdown, which was not the first time or the last, and I finally collapsed in her arms like a child and cried.

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The business was by now hundreds of thousands of pounds in debt and I did not care a hoot. I hated the business and I just wanted a new life with Alicia. I had got involved with people who were known criminals, would-be Mafia types, who were ‘helping’ me to rescue the business. This led to me becoming very paranoid when I was told that another group of ‘businessmen’ wanted me out of the premium rate business.

On one occasion I was summoned by telephone to meet a stranger in Overpool. He claimed to represent a ‘Mafioso’ style family that was going to use my business as a filter for drug money. During his call he was able to tell me a lot of things about me and my family, and he threatened to kill the children if I did not meet him. Alicia and I met with this person and after his threats were repeated, I agreed that I would allow the arrangement for cash to be deposited in one of our company accounts. The same evening of that meeting, Alicia and I were attending a manager’s meal in my friend’s club, and I was told by someone there that the person I had met was in fact someone who worked in our Overpool office. I drank several bottles of wine and then decided to deal with this situation in the only way I knew how.

The Home from Hell had taught me that sometimes you had to go beyond fear and face up to the bully. With my drunken courage, I 120

called the man whom I had met and told him I needed to see him urgently, straight away. I then drove through the Overpool tunnel in my big flash red Mercedes and skidded up at high speed outside an office in Overpool city centre. The guy came down to meet me from the office building. As he stepped out of the lift, I leaped on him. The lift doors remained open and I set about kicking him and punching him as hard and as fast as I could. My adrenaline was high, as was my fear, and this turned me into a madman. As I was kicking him in the face his teeth were coming out and blood was spurting onto the side of the lift.

After this initial frenzied attack, I dragged him back in the lift and took him to the top floor of the building. I literally pulled him by his hair to one of the windows and tried to lift him out of it, in order to throw him down several levels. I was in such a frenzy that I did not realise that this was all being recorded on video tape via the internal security cameras of the building. Although I did not kill him, I was now in a terrible state of fear, having realised what I had just done. I telephoned one of the people I knew who were helping me with the business, and he came to help me. He put the lad in the boot of his Mercedes and told him he was going to be dumped in the river. In fact, he dumped him outside a local hospital. I was told to go home and forget it ever happed. The next day the security guard in the building was paid a cash sum in exchange for the video evidence.

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The lad recovered after having a metal cage on his face because of a broken jaw and fractured cheek bones.

The attempt to blackmail me was over and I never heard from them again. The people who were helping me were a known family in Overpool and I was now under their protection. All I can tell you is that they claimed to be connected to the infamous twins who once terrorised the streets of London.

Eventually, holding onto the last strands of sanity, I liquidated the business and went away with Alicia to the Canary Islands for a long break, leaving a big mess behind me. That holiday was like a dream come true. I felt loved by Alicia and we became best friends, lovers, business partners, and we were falling deeply in love, despite my messy world that was hanging over me like the plague.

We knew even then that we would spend the rest of our lives together. How we would be rid of my messy life back home did not seem important as together, we were a force to be reckoned with. Every second of my time on holiday was spent with Alicia. I had found my soul mate.

For me, meeting Alicia was like waking from a long nightmare, 122

and I realised that I was not who I thought I was. My life felt like it had been a façade and I had become an enigma. I was a tortured soul who had been seeking solace in a fabricated life, and now all I wanted was Alicia, my predestined soul mate.

The business did not end with a simple liquidation. I was being chased by the Department of Trade and Industry who had alleged that I was in breach of my fiduciary duties as a Managing Director and was therefore being held personally responsible for over one millions pounds of company debt. At the liquidators meeting I arrogantly tossed a single pound coin over the desk and said that this was my £1 share of responsibility. We had answered “no comment” to the creditor’s questions and we were accompanied by one of the people who were ‘helping’ us. This had annoyed the liquidator and it set off a two-year fight with him and the Department of Trade and Industry. I paid over £20,000 for a lawyer friend and a barrister to prove I was not guilty as charged. I won my case when I presented a 114 page affidavit and fifty supporting pieces of evidence. I was given a one year ban from becoming a Director of a limited company. I remember saying as I left the court “No problem, my next company will be in Alicia’s name”.

My cocky attitude was merely covering over my selfdestructive mind set, and I desperately wanted out of the world I was 123

in. I just wanted to escape and rub it all away as if it was not real.

Laura, who was still living in the house she and I had purchased, had accepted the arrangements for me to pay all her expenses for looking after the children while I lived with Alicia. I spent less and less time with her and the children as I became more involved with the business liquidation and my life with Alicia. Laura subsequently met someone and she left with her daughter in the middle of the night, leaving her brother to look after my two boys, Kevin and David. Alicia and I collected them from the house and they came to live with us in our love nest.

Alicia immediately became a ‘mum’, and without complaint, adjusted her entire life to caring for both of my boys. She had lost a boy of her own before I met her. Wayne had died at birth and I guess that Alicia had a lot of unused motherly love stored in her heart, and my boys benefited from this immediately.

Laura had literally vanished overnight, so I set about looking for her and engaged a private detective to find her. Letting her go was something I found hard. I was a control-freak who always liked to have the last word. I did not want Laura, but I did want control of the situation. I sent threats out on the grapevine, saying that I had to

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talk to her. We owned the house together and I could not sell it without her signature. This all came to a head when I was visited by a few ‘thugs’ who her new boyfriend had sent to warn me off. I invited one of them into my house and, with a rifle at my side I confidently told him he was mixing with the wrong man. I mentioned the names of my ‘Mafioso’ friends in Overpool and it was agreed that both sides would back off. Truth is, I had no bullets for my rifle and I was seriously worried about being beaten up. This event shook me out of my obsession of finding Laura. Later, I did meet her in a café by arrangement, and it was agreed that I would stay away. I told Laura that I did have a form of love for her and her daughter, and that I was sorry for not staying with her but she knew I loved Alicia. I realise now that Laura had to escape my control in order to get a life of her own. She was a lovely person and I was lucky to have had time with her. I had loved her little girl, as much as I was able to, and I did find myself pining for her affections for sometime after she had gone out of my life.

The split from Laura had a very negative effect on David, who considered her to be his mum and he also missed his ‘sister’, Veronica. It is to the credit of Alicia, who persevered with David for many years, he turned into a very well adjusted young man who she has loved as her own son.

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On my return from Spain, Alicia and I realised that we would need another business income if we wanted to maintain the lifestyle we had become accustomed too. Alicia would have been happy with the basics in life, but she was now caught up in my world of sex, money, and high living.

I was continuing to live the life I had been financing with my very high salary and expense account, but I did not have any money left. The credit cards were bashed to the max, and I was personally in £250,000 of credit debt at this time.

We had to move from the love nest quickly, when the cash dried up. It was at this time that Alicia’s dad sold the family home and Alicia and her brother and sister were given cash from the sale. We utilised this cash to set up a new home and a business. We formed a limited company and Alicia and her brother and sister invested the cash. It created a job for me, a home for us, and employment for members of the family.

It was 1990 and we decided to set up another business on our own. We returned firstly to the dating game and launched an upmarket introduction agency which we called Alicia Jane Countryside Introductions. We also set up a furniture business with

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Andy, and I ran the three businesses. At this time I also went to see my real father and asked if he could help me in any way. His help came in an obscure way. He was selling his self-built home that was a Spanish-style complex known as Villa Amour. It was a big place with its own 156 feet driveway. My father arranged a mortgage through a friend of his. We set up a situation that involved an inflated property evaluation. Alicia and I then borrowed around £152,000 and paid £120,000 to my father as payment for Villa Armour. This gave us £32,000 to play with. The mortgage payments were around £1,500 per month, so we immediately re-mortgaged for an even higher amount and borrowed a further £15,000 to help pay the mortgage payments in the initial months.

The furniture business collapsed and the family sold the other business when it started to get into financial difficulties. We moved to our new home, taking the dating business with us.

We had the double garage converted into an office suite attached to the house. It was a great feeling when I engaged Haynes Builders to do the work as they were my first employers, and now I was employing them. When the work had been completed, the property market boomed and the value increased to £250,000.

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We went on to start a few more limited companies offering business management services and we also set up a new telephone premium rate service in partnership with my friend Andy. We engaged a London-based advertising agent, and ordered fifty or so telephone lines on which we now offered sex advice and flirtatious messages from imaginary models and strip-tease dancers. This made about £50,000 profit. The dating game had changed and the real money was in swingers clubs rather than traditional dating. I guess this was a sign of liberated times, promoted by national press such as the ‘Sport’ newspaper, in which we advertised our dial-and-listen services.

We launched a new service named XTC international and purchased the very latest computer equipment. We were one of the first companies to utilise computer technology in this way. We reemployed some of the more loyal staff from the Chatlines, and the business boomed from our home office.

The singles and couples market was a seedy place to make money, but I was beyond caring, I was simply making money in the only way I knew how. Alicia had become pregnant while we were in the shop flat and our first child, Anthony, was born while we were there. We were the happiest couple on the planet. Our day job was to make money, the rest of the time we doted on Anthony and lived a 128

happy life with David and Kevin at our sides. Alicia’s brother Jim came to live with us in Villa Amour, and he helped look after the kids while we worked. We all enjoyed holidays together and we furnished our home luxuriously. I felt that I was back on track and I was being successful. Everything was a bed of roses. And then something happened that would change life yet again.

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10 Jesus in the Shower I have always spent more money than I have earned, even though, over the years, I have earned a lot. I have never given wealth any respect and my tastes in clothing, cars, hotels, and food have always been at the top end of the price scale. I have often been overgenerous to others, including complete strangers. I think I have used money and the trappings of success like an overcoat that was hiding a frail body; with it on, I felt secure and untouchable, without it, I felt vulnerable. The root cause of this probably stemmed from the time I spent in The Home from Hell. Having possessions and cash had been a way of surviving whilst I was incarcerated. My abuser, Mr Shush, was a powerful man with a lot of possessions and a lot of money and his high life, empowered by wealth, had undoubtedly influenced me deeply. However, I realise now that it was just a façade. I had never really dealt with the baggage of my past. I was a man running away from himself with no clear direction or realistic understanding of people and life in general. I was a sex addict with a distorted view of reality.

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Alicia, who’s real name is Jane by the way, was the only constant in my life at that time. We both now realise that she had also become embroiled in my life of hedonism and self-delusion. She was her own person but always remained willing to support me through any event. Her love was unconditional. It is true love that she continues giving me everyday.

It was not long before things began to crack again, only this time it was me that was falling at a fast pace, not the businesses. Even my life with Jane and the kids, plus the money and the house was not enough. I was living with deep-rooted nightmares and feelings of inadequacy. I was still a manufactured person, I was not me.

Drinking heavily and smoking around fifty cigarettes a day was beginning to have an adverse effect on my health. I had been running at a hundred miles an hour through thirty three years of life. It was catching up with me when I was diagnosed with double pleurisy on my lungs. I became bedridden, depressed and suicidal. Jane kept the businesses and the family going, while I lay in my bed, still smoking and still drinking. I was popping very strong pain killers like sweets, and hiding under the covers, away from reality for months on end. God only knows how Jane kept things together because I was mentally up and down like a yo-yo. The pain from the pleurisy was so overpowering that even my self-will and insane 131

determination were losing the battle. I was dreaming vivid memories, reliving events of my childhood and I was tearful without any obvious cause to the onlooker. The room I was in was getting smaller and smaller by the day and I felt like I was disappearing down a big black hole.

Jane was not only caring for me and trying to keep the businesses going, but also caring for the children. Andy was helping as much as he could but as a polio sufferer, he was limited with what he could do. Subsequently, the businesses started to fail and the cash was running out again. I had been in my slumber, nursing illness and possibly madness for many months and we were almost broke again. The property market plummeted and we were in negative equity and falling behind with the mortgage repayments. Jane, as you may have gathered, was a rock, but unfortunately for her, a rock in the hard place that I had created. She quietly, and without complaint, held on to all the strings of life, making sure that the kids were looked after. Her hand of help and love was the only thing I could see in my big black hole of confusion. Then along came change again.

Through the curtains of my dark room, I could see it was a bright sunny day outside. The door opened and Jane walked in saying that I had a visitor. It was a psychiatrist that she had contacted because she was so worried about me. He sat and talked to me for 132

quite some time and I tried to convince him that Jane was worrying unnecessarily. I had no faith in doctors. They had tried to analyse me when I was a child and I did not trust them. He left and prescribed more drugs, which I gladly added to my daily cocktail.

Not along after this, my cousin Charlie, who was Nathan’s older brother, turned up out of the blue to visit me. Jane let him in and he told me he was a Christian. He talked for hours about his life with my Auntie Anne and his strict father, my uncle Jim. He was convinced that he was a born again person and that God was real and Jesus was alive. He told me that Jesus had sent him to me, to rescue me from myself. My first response was to tell him to fuck off. I told him he was a nut case who had lost the plot. He responded without anger and simply repeated that Jesus loved me and then he left. He came back the next day, but I had told Jane not to let him in.

A few days passed, and then my mother Amelia turned up unexpectedly, wanting to see me. She had become a Jehovah Witness and tried to persuade me to go with her to a Kingdom Hall meeting. I told her to fuck off as well. I remember thinking that the world had gone mad with all these Jesus freaks coming to my house. The very next day, two Mormon preachers turned up at the door wanting to talk about God. I was so fed up of this, I told Jane to let them in and leave them with me in the room. I listened to what they said, 133

presented them with my counter-arguments, and they eventually gave up and left. That same evening my cousin Charlie arrived again, this time with his wife, and he told me that Jesus was still waiting for me to call him. I thought he was a bloody nut case and my patience was rapidly running out. It was just as well I was ill or I would have thrown him out of the house. When they left, they invited Jane’s brother to go with them to a meeting in a local church and he subsequently went with them.

They left me a leaflet about Jesus. It basically said that he had died for me on the cross, and that I could call him in prayer and he would come to me and heal me and forgive me. It sounded daft, but it was also a very tempting offer. I discussed things with Jane, who was raised as a catholic and she did not want to get involved. That night was 3rd April 1991. I had got very drunk and decided to have it out with God. I started talking to him, even though I could not see him. I told him he must be a complete bastard if he was real. I spent the night literally talking with God, out loud. I was venomous in my accusations against him. If he was real, then he could have stopped all the pain and anguish in my heart. If he was real, he could have helped me when I was being abused. If he was real, he could have… and so I went on until the early hours of the morning.

I woke up on the 4th April and for the first time in months I had 134

no pain in my chest. Without thinking, I opened the curtains and stood looking at the garden. This is going to sound like I had finally gone mad, but as real as the day is a day; a bird landed on the wall and looked at me. It was a crane and it was huge. As I looked at it, it seemed to look deep into my eyes. I heard nothing. Total silence had befallen my ears. I felt a breath of fresh air in my lungs as it flew off. I then showered.

While in the shower, I realised that I felt somehow different, and my first instinct was to tell myself I must be going mad. Then as I was washing my face, I was convinced that I felt a third hand on my face. In an instant moment of shock, I slumped to the floor of the shower, speechless and unable to move. No one else was in the shower with me and I lay there, perplexed by the event. I did not understand what was going on. The shower continued bouncing water off my body and I sat quietly for what seemed like hours.

Jane called me to ask if I was alright and I got out and sat on the bed in a towel and explained to her what had happened. I think she was now seriously worried about me and I realise it must have been terrible for her. She then called the psychiatrist again.

Jane’s brother had come back from the meeting with Charlie

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excitedly explaining that he had found Jesus in his heart at the meeting. Jane must have thought that my illness was contagious. He and I spent hours talking about our experiences and we invited Charlie back to the house. He subsequently explained that we had both been ‘saved’ and that it was Jesus who had come to me in the shower.

I met the psychiatrist in his office with Jane and I told him he needed Jesus in his life and that I did not need him in mine. I was rude to him and left.

The businesses finally closed and we became almost destitute. It was Andy who, having heard about my ‘madness’, came to the house and gave Jane a bundle of cash. It was £3,000. He was worried about me and the family, and his act of kindness came with no strings attached. My cousin Charlie said it was Jesus supplying our needs through a human hand.

The first time I walked into the Havenhead Christian Centre, accompanied by Charlie and his wife, I felt very awkward. It was big, it was plush, and there was no sign of Jesus. In fact, it looked to me just like many of the hotel seminar rooms that I had been in.

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Music started and everyone stood up and they sang together for a long time. They looked like insane people with their hands in the air and big smiles, and some where singing in a very strange language. There were about three hundred people in that room and they all seemed very happy. A preacher finally got on the stage and started talking about Jesus. He was charismatic and a very good communicator. He reminded me of some of the Amway sales promoters that I had seen from America. He made a lot of sense as he talked about the World and the horrible events of war and famine. Eventually, everyone bowed their heads and he started to pray. As he prayed, he spoke to God as if He was his father.

At the end of the meeting the preacher asked that people who wanted to be ‘saved’ should repeat a prayer after him and then put up their hands. I was in a place I had never been before. It was mesmerising and peaceful. I said the prayer and then raised my hand.

After the meeting everyone had tea and biscuits and people came up to me, complete strangers, and they hugged me. Some kissed me on the cheek. They seemed absolutely ecstatic that I had joined their family. The apparent love and happiness in that room was overwhelming and I was speechless. I sat deep in my thoughts watching Charlie greeting his friends when I suddenly realised that 137

the room I was in, was the same room I had gone to when I got off the bus as a child and had checked into the hospital. The children’s hospital had been converted to a Church.

Looking back now, I do wonder if this fact contributed to my willingness to get sucked in to this hysteria of God and the born again family of believers.

I had returned home to Jane in an exuberant state of mind. We sat up all night while she listened to my new-found blithering about God and Jesus and our salvation from hell. God only knows what was going on in her mind. She was taken aback by the apparent miraculous change in me. I was happy and I was out of bed with all the enthusiasm for life that I had shown before.

I became totally immersed in that church. I listened carefully and totally believed every utterance from the pulpit. I studied everything and eventually began a formal study course of the entire Bible. I did degree and diploma levels of study. I converted my home office into a shrine to Jesus and I spent at least ten hours a day with my head in theological, expositional, and exegesis text books.

As this journey was unfolding, our personal finances were 138

spinning out of control and debt collectors were queuing at the door. I was tithing ten percent of our remaining income to the church while Jane was trying to feed us all on about £25 per week. I was also inviting the debt collectors in to the house, rather than hiding from them. I was telling them about Jesus and how they should repent from their sin and ask Him for forgiveness. I was praying for them and even offering to heal them of any ailments they may have. Needless to say, not many returned for more God bashing from me.

As I became well known in the church I was asked repeatedly to go on to the stage and tell people about the miracles in my life. They were now using me to entice others into the church. I was studying the Bible, preaching the gospel, praying constantly, and living in a heavenly guarded place of blissful security. Meanwhile, Jane was packing our belongings in preparation for our imminent eviction. My answer to everything was that Jesus would take care if it. My independent thought and thinking power were being eradicated by the church way of life and my entire being was absorbent of every gospel ‘fact’ ever written.

After two years with the church I was selected to be a Pastor of one of the satellite churches. I had been through the gospel college and had come out the other end as a typical Pentecostal preacher and 139

pastor. I was genuine in my belief. We had lost our home, but ‘God’ had provided a new one, close to where I ran the satellite church. I packed a lot into my time with the church. I did missions across the country and in Ireland. I travelled with the charismatic leader of the church, acting as a sort of ‘first act’, before the main event. I was being paid as a church administrator during the day, as well as working with the team that was producing a national Christian magazine. I did the paste-up of the artwork, and also handled the sales and marketing side.

My satellite church grew and we were helping many people from a poor area in Overpool. As the Pastor, I found myself involved with people’s lives. I had to be an advisor and confidante in their times of marital or financial trouble, while also being their appointed spiritual father. I took to this new life like a duck to water.

Our new home was small but comfortable and Jane was now getting involved with my church activities. As always, she was fully supportive. I had my head literally in the clouds, while she had her feet firmly in the reality of daily childcare and home maintenance. I became involved with national evangelistic missions and also in street preaching in very rough areas. I was a good communicator who truly believed in Jesus, and I had no fear of anything or anybody whilst under his perceived heavenly protection. I went to Romania to 140

help starving children in a destitute hospital. I was asked to photograph children in their desperate situations. The photos were going to be used to bring their plight to the attention of the churches back home. I will never forget the stench of infantile death and the squalid conditions that those little babies were suffering in their caged cots. I watched through the lens of a camera as one baby, as thin as a rake and with a body twisted with malnutrition, vomited and then proceeded to eat the vomit.

I found Romania to be a pleasant place of green hills and fresh air with hidden places of hell and human waste that were secretly occupied with hundreds of orphans. The team I was with did great work in Romania. The leader was a guy who had been the manager at the home I stayed in when I returned to The Home from Hell. He had become a Christian and was doing good work in Romania with his wife. He raised money for them, firstly by singing country and western songs and later, by raising hundreds of thousands of pounds from hospitals and churches across the country. I was honoured to have been a part of the beginning of his mission. It raised over a million pounds and he had the hospital in Romania re-built to our national health standards.

It was around the time that I returned from Romania that I started to attend meetings with the senior Pastor at the main church. 141

He liked to gather his first line troops each week for an update on the battle against the devil. I became increasingly uncomfortable in these meetings. He appeared to be more interested in the money collected each week, than in the well-being of the people who gave it. I was naturally suspicious of men in suits claiming to be the helpers of the poor. I ignored my feelings for quite some time. I guess I was guilty of enjoying my status within the church, along with my income and security attained through the church. Many, many incidents happened that increased my dislike of these so called ‘fathers of faith’.

On one occasion, whilst in Ireland, I watched the senior Pastor reading the Times Stock Exchange details with avid interest, while someone tried to gain his attention about a poor family in the local community. I witnessed that preacher build his own financial empire through the contributions of the church. He dressed it up as ‘God’s work. He opened businesses involved with the care for the elderly, care for children, and workshops for the unemployed. I watched him build and sell houses for a vast profit. I also watched him manipulate his audience each week while raising more money for ‘God’. This is of course, just my opinion of him.

Here was a charismatic man, again, charming all around him with his eloquence. This was something I had witnessed before. I 142

eventually started to challenge some of the issues I was concerned about and this took me out of his favour. I had a challenging time in church life, and what was originally a salvation through the arms of Jesus for me, was becoming a personal dilemma of conscience.

Jane became pregnant with our second child and we were elated with the news. The pregnancy was full term and we had been told we were having a little girl. I was over the moon and we prepared for this new little life. The boys were excited and Jane was looking forward to having a girl in the family. We decided on the name of Natalie, and we had her room ready and her first clothes were purchased. My relationship with the church was waning, and their support of me was diminishing. Only two senior Pastors were true to their Christian faith in offering me and my family their genuine and continued support for many years, unconditionally. They were Pastor Rufus and Pastor Dirk.

It was the 18 June 1995, on father’s day, that Natalie was stillborn. The midwife placed her in my arms, wrapped in a white towel and she was lifeless. We had been told two days before that she had died in the womb. We were devastated. Jane was at an all-time low. This was the fourth pregnancy that had failed and the second stillbirth she had endured. As Natalie was placed in my arms I started to call out to Jesus. I had faith in him. It was genuine faith and 143

I believed he could bring her back to life. I pleaded with him, through floods of tears, to let Natalie live. Time passed and there was no response. I had told Jane that she would be brought back to life if we truly believed. We prayed and I continued to call out to Jesus. I waited for his response, looking at her little chest, expecting a sign of life. But nothing happened. By this time the midwives were looking awkward. One of them was crying. They wanted to take Natalie away and I would not let go of her. Jane was heartbroken and exhausted. I tried again, I pleaded to Jesus to bring her back to life. She remained void of life.

The funeral was in our home town. I invited everyone I knew, even my mother. Natalie’s white coffin was covered with flowers that spelt her name. Her funeral was an opportunity for us to demonstrate our faith in Jesus. I gave a sermon through my tears and my friends spoke generously of our faith. We buried her and that was that. Her little life was over before it had started.

My mother had turned up, last minute at the graveside, and had thrown her arms around me. I was cold and emotionless and very nearly pushed her in the hole. I told her to get away from me.

Just before Natalie had died, I had been summoned to the main

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church to see the elders. On arrival I discovered my friend Pastor Rufus waiting for me outside the office. He got hold of my arm and quietly told me to remain calm and led me into the office. The senior Pastor was sitting at his big desk, with an array of elders sitting either side. I looked at them, they were my ‘family’ of friends, and none looked me in the eye. I sat down at the end of the table. The senior Pastor commenced his attack. His line of questioning was accusatory and sermon-like. I was being questioned about my relationship with a young female member of my church. She was eighteen and had been involved with one of my team leaders. I was asked directly if I had committed adultery with her. I knew my Bible inside out. So I said yes, in the eyes of Jesus I had committed adultery with her. Before I had time to explain what I meant, the jury found me guilty and I was excommunicated from the church and they asked me to leave the room with Pastor Rufus. It was a kangaroo court, devised by the senior Pastor to remove me. I believe this was in response to my continued questioning about his business affairs within the church. I was like a rabbit caught in the headlights; I did not defend myself and I just froze and said no more.

The Bible has a verse in it that’s reads: ‘But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart’ Mathew’5:28

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I had looked at this girl lustfully, and many others also, if I am honest. I was a ‘recovering’ sex addict. However, I was never unfaithful to my wife or to my Jesus.

Pastor Rufus became my Christian father and helped me through the difficult times that lay ahead. The so-called family turned its back on me and my real family. They were influenced by several Sunday sermons that were given after my disappearance from church. Hypocrisy is rife amongst those who have a plank in their own eye while judging those of us who have a splinter. The senior Pastor was an experienced manipulator of the people mass. I was devastated by these events and when none of them came to Natalie’s funeral, with the exception of a Nigerian couple who were always faithful to me and to Jane, I had decided to cut myself off from them completely.

Like a miracle, after the funeral, I was contacted by another church who wanted me to join them, and a millionaire Christian also made contact and asked me to meet him with view to employment with a new Christian project. Pastor Rufus was convinced that God was vindicating me and encouraged me to follow this new pathway.

We moved on from the funeral and I accepted my new position

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as the manager of the National Christian Helpline. I was paid a large salary and given an executive car. This led to other opportunities and I became the Managing Editor of a Christian Magazine. We were now going to church as members, but not involved in the ‘management and politics’ of church government. My face was on advertisements in every Christian magazine available, and even the Salvation Army ‘War Cry’ newspaper published a three page story about my faith and my achievements. I did many interviews on Christian radio and was also employed by a Christian magazine to help sell their advertising. I used to think about the meetings that would have gone on in the old church, with the senior Pastor being told about my high profile within the Pentecostal churches. He would have huffed and puffed until he burst a blood vessel.

We eventually moved house and went to live in a beautiful part of North Wales. I continued a very busy life as a ‘Christian’, but to be honest I felt that Jesus had deserted me. I realise now that I was awakening from my ‘born-again coma’.

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11 The Rise and fall of Faith

When I told people that I believed in Jesus as my personal Lord and Saviour, I was telling the truth. Every fibre of my being was at that time imbedded in the belief that Jesus was alive and the Holy Spirit was living within me. I believed without any doubt that I was empowered by God. This was the message of the church, and the Bible had confirmed it to me.

I had been through a metamorphic experience; I had been spiritually ‘Born Again’. The power of that belief was astounding. It caused a change to my mind-set, a need to overcome addictions, and it filled me with an extraordinary passion and empathy for other people. I began to ‘see’ with a new found wisdom, into lives and situations as if I possessed all the knowledge of the world. I was able to study complex expositions about the Bible and grasp the meaning and exegesis of the ancient texts. I lost all fear of men and of dogs in an instant. I was filled to the brim with enthusiasm, energy, and love

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for my fellow man. I was void of any realism of life, and walking as if I was on a holy cloud. The Christians around me were sometimes perplexed by my apparent spiritual aura, and many told me that they felt like they were missing the anointing of God on their life when they compared their faith with mine.

It took only two years to the day to be appointed as a Pastor of a Church and I took the responsibility very seriously. Although naïve, I was dedicated and had such faith in Jesus that I knew I could accomplish anything I believed he wanted me to do. Life with Jesus was a constant experience that had no ‘downtime’. People could not keep up with my ideas for the promotion of the gospel and the salvation of the lost. For me, time was running out for those who did not know Jesus. They were all going to die and go to hell. It was my ordained mission to take the word of God to everyone, no matter how much I was ridiculed for it.

No one I knew at that time escaped my constant attack on their unbelief. Andy, for example, sat for hours, patiently putting up with me in his office whilst I bible-bashed him. I wanted his soul and I was relentless. Friends, family and anyone I met in the street were proselytised with my constant narrative about Jesus and his love for them. This ended in a few arguments with people like my mother Amelia, who was a Jehovah’s Witness and many of my ‘Mafioso’ 149

friends just listened in amazement. One of them said he would join me, but wanted to know how much money could be made each Sunday and how much ‘investment’ did he need to get into the ‘God Business’.

On missions I would volunteer to go the roughest places and speak to gangs on street corners. I visited prisons and gave testimony in their Church services. On one occasion in Shrewsbury men’s prison, I spoke about Jesus healing the damage in my life caused by sexual abuse. At the end of that service a few men were crying. I was later told that these men were known as ‘beasts’, which was the prison name for paedophiles.

I considered everything that happened to me during that first two years as a Christian, good and bad, to be the will of God. I was lost to reality and drunk on this new-found faith.

I watched video films of famous American preachers and was so inspired by them that I was beginning to sound like them. This was similar to when I was in Amway, and I would spread to gospel of ‘multi-level’ marketing, otherwise known as ‘pyramid selling’. I realise now, that this type of evangelistic life is actually contagious, and I convinced many people to become born again Christians. Even

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my wife Jane, who is as sane as anyone could be, became a ‘tongue talking’ Christian who would regularly sing her heart out to God with her hands in the air.

This tsunami of new life in the Christian fast lane started to crumble however. Firstly, when the church accused me of adultery, and then when Natalie did not take a breath, despite my pleading with God, the seeds of doubt started to grow.

The job with the National Christian helpline came to an end when the owner’s donations for its upkeep ran out. My employment as Managing Editor for the Christian millionaire also came to an end when his idea for a Christian Credit Card failed to attract any support. It was time for change and I was ready for it.

The truth is that I was, at that time, already falling away from the faith I had been so ecstatic about. I was suffering post-death anxiety and sadness at losing Natalie and my church family had wounded me with their excommunication and sentence to the outer perimeters of no-mans land. I could not forgive God for taking Natalie from us, and he had committed the unforgivable sin of hurting the only true love of my life, my wife Jane.

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We had another baby on the way whilst all this was going on, and I am pleased to say that Tim was born successfully and was settling in at home with his brothers.

During the last days of my time in Wales, and with the church, I had started to think deeply about my childhood. This had been ignited by a picture of my abuser appearing on the national news. He had been arrested and accused of abusing children. This was followed by an advertisement in the Daily Telegraph on the 24/10/96 which was an invitation from the Chairman of the North Wales Tribunal of Inquiry into child abuse. I had made contact with the enquiry and was subsequently interviewed by the police who took a statement from me. I then contacted the media and offered them information about my experiences in care. Subsequently, media frenzy took place in the national and local press and I was approached by as many as twenty media agencies who wanted my story. I made the decision not to accept any payments, and I offered myself as a credible witness to the events of the past. I saw this as a quicker route to expose what had happened than what was to prove a very long and convoluted inquiry by Sir Ronald Waterhouse.

I held on to my ‘Ordained Minister’ status a little longer as it opened doors in the press and on television and radio. I have many clippings of my press interviews and radio broadcasts in my safe. 152

Wales Today subsequently made a documentary about The Home from Hell and I was featured in it. In addition to this, my story was also featured on the national news. The London Evening Standard ran a five page feature after interviewing me and other’s, and it purported findings of child sex abuse, blackmail, and even murder of witnesses. Many of my fellow care siblings feared for their very lives after boys who we all knew had died in very suspicious circumstances. I was fed up of the exposure on my life and I decided that a new start, away from North Wales and the press was needed fast, so I moved my family to a village in the Epsom Valley.

We had been to a particular village many times, firstly passing through on business and subsequently as holiday makers, when renting a cottage. Jane and I had found this village accidentally when I had taken a wrong turning on the way to Hardcastle. This was when Jane was travelling as my personal secretary, prior to our marriage. The village had a quaint pub and shop with a picturesque green and brook running through it. We had stopped at the pub for many meals after discovering this village and it became our secret getaway in the early days of our relationship. We fell in love in this village and we had said that we would live there one day.

That day had arrived.

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12 A Born Again Atheist We packed up all our belongings in North Wales and moved to our new home in Mortonley village. We had secured a new home and had meticulously planned for the big move. It was April 1998 and Tim was now eighteen months old.

It took three trips in a hired van to get our belongings moved, and we did it all in a single day. Our new home was a small threebedroom rustic croft house on the edge of the village. I was very excited about this move and it felt like I was going home, even though I had never lived in the area before. Jane was not so keen. Our home in Wales was nice but it was not as isolated as Mortonley village. However, as always, Jane followed the plan and got stuck into making the new house a home.

When we arrived, we had no fixed employment, little money left, and we were leaving Jane’s family behind. She is very close to them and leaving them was a big wrench for her.

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We spent a few weeks enjoying the new country way of life, and sorted out schools for David and Anthony. I then received a telephone call out of the blue from a Christian guy who had been advised to contact me by a Christian friend of mine. This call drastically changed things yet again. The chap that called had been hired by a Christian millionaire from Hong Kong. The story he told me was that the millionaire, Mr Chung, had arrived in the UK with twenty million dollars to invest in a new dotcom business idea. The internet-based business industry was just taking off on its initial wave of interest in this country.

I arranged to meet this chap and a deal was done very quickly. I was offered the position as the National Recruitment Director for the new project. It involved a very high salary, a Mercedes car, and an expense account. My job was to travel the country holding recruitment seminars that were designed to entice network marketing individuals to pay a fee to join this new dotcom venture. The basic idea was to build a network of recruiters who would, in turn, sign up individual shoppers who would spend at least £50 per month on their general grocery shopping via a new internet shopping site named suparmarkit.com. I could see that this could be a workable business, and like most people in 1998, I was intrigued at the possibilities of on-line shopping. 155

I set up an office at home and initially spent a few weeks in London with Mr Chung. It quickly became obvious to me that the appointed Managing Director was out of his depth, and Mr Chung was soon turning to me for ideas. I proceeded to spend twelve months on the road travelling from city to city organising and presenting business opportunity seminars. I also worked with the head office team in London designing promotional material and I was commissioned to author a new multi-level business system that could be used to build the network of recruiters. I copied the Amway business model and added changes to create a plan that was legally acceptable and unique in its bonus payment structure.

This job took me away from Jane and the kids and yet again she was left to manage the family affairs. I was staying in the best hotels but desperately missing my family. However, we had both agreed that this opportunity may be the one that would finally help us to clear debt from the past, and set us up with a secure future.

Fifteen months later, after helping Mr Chung spend more than two million pounds, I received a call from the London office to say that Mr Chung had gone bankrupt and had returned to Hong Kong in shame. He had apparently lost all his money in a stock market crash. He had left me a sum of money to pay for the dismantling of the London and Edinburgh offices, plus a few months salary and a 156

letter saying that I could keep the Mercedes. Although this was a blow to our plan for future security, it was welcome news to me, as I did not like being away from home all the time. Jane and I had a long talk about what to do next.

I contacted a few old business chums and put the idea to them that we may be able to rescue Mr Chung’s business model. I raised forty thousand pounds in a few days and set up a new office in Mortonley village. We installed computers and telephones and I spent several days contacting all the people I had recruited for Mr Chung. It was a hard sell trying to gain their confidence again, but I managed to secure more than one hundred agents. I set up a few meetings with suppliers and engaged a website builder to create the new selling site. I named it Essentialgoods.com

One of the investors that I had contacted had promised a further one hundred thousand pounds if I managed to secure suppliers and agents. After a lot of hard work and late nights travelling from city to city, the launch date was soon on the horizon and I was chasing the extra investment.

It was never to be.

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My main investor was an American friend who I trusted and had done business with in the past, however, it turned out that he was penniless and his investment was never to arrive. This was yet another blow to the plan of our future security that ended abruptly. I took a week off and thought things through. I decided I needed a new plan.

While these businesses were unfolding and folding, I had been maintaining the illusion of being a Christian. I had kept my ordination title and also the façade of being a born again believer. I had learned that it opened doors for me.

I was about to look for a job in sales and marketing when I was yet again contacted by someone who had been referred to me by an old business contact. The Christian millionaire who had funded the National Christian Helpline had given my name to an Iranian businessman he knew, who was not a Christian but was employed by an investment broker in the city of London. This group wanted to set up a dotcom website that was going to be the very latest thing in online shopping. They had sixty five million pounds to invest. You can imagine my scepticism when I heard all this over the telephone and I initially said no. However, the Iranian was persistent and I agreed to meet him. He came from London to meet me in a local hotel and basically asked me to name my price. He seemed desperate to get 158

started. He wanted me to recruit and manage a team of internal and external sales people who would have the job of securing at least fifteen thousands products that could be drop-shipped by suppliers direct to this new dotcom’s customers.

I named my price and conditions and we shook hands. I could not believe my luck. I called a few of my business friends who I trusted, and gave them employment with this new business. I set up another office in a nearby town and set to work on the fifteen thousand product mission. I had been given six months by the Iranian to complete this first task.

Whilst I was doing this, I set up another on-line business with my friend Andy. We both subsequently lost two thousand pounds each on our sellingservice.com idea. We had launched it just as eBay hit the market with a far superior version of the same idea.

Jane and I were enjoying our new life along with our children, plus the money was coming in. We had moved to a bigger house in the same village and Jane had settled to the countryside lifestyle. Whilst I had been away most of the time on business, she and the children were putting down roots and making friends in the village.

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I had a few setbacks during these years with my health, and I know now that I was suffering badly from stress.

After six months the Iranian turned up from London unexpectedly and thanked me for achieving the goal that had been set. However, he then asked me to wrap up the office and sack the staff. He explained that the investment broker was taking his money and business to the Isle of Man and had decided to wait for the dotcom boom to flourish further before they launched the site. They had been given a big tax holiday incentive to move the operation. I was offered a new job but told I would have to move to the Isle of Man. It took me about two seconds to make the decision not to accept. I had met the people involved at the top end of the company during the previous six months and I was not impressed with them at all. They were out of my league and seemed to be obsessed with greed and power. I had a feeling I would have been eaten alive by these people so I declined what looked like a great opportunity on paper. In addition, I was also feeling exhausted and did not have the mental capacity to try again, I was burned out.

I was again back home and enjoying time with Jane and the boys, but I had to earn an income. I set up a new Limited company and set to work from my home office again. I made a few telephone calls and quickly secured a contract to sell Christian advertising 160

space in several national Christian magazines. I was acting as an agent and it was Pastor Rufus and Pastor Dirk who helped me achieve this. They had no idea that I was no longer going to church.

The new business was easy to run and I only had to work a few hours each day to make a reasonable living. I enjoyed this for a few months and then secured a big contract in London to help produce a brand new Christian business magazine. I had the production and printing contract for this new publication and also the contract for the selling of the advertising. I engaged an old friend to do the computer artwork and I secured a line of credit at one of the largest magazine printers in the UK. I gave a friend from the village a job helping to sell the advertising.

This lasted for quite some time, and I was good at this type of business, enjoying the mix of art, design and selling. Family life was plodding along and all seemed settled again.

My atheist label was new to me and I was fighting a personal battle with depression and the loss of my Christian ‘faith’. All things aside, I must be honest and tell you that I was very happy in the illusion of ‘walking’ with Jesus and having my Christian family to turn to. It was a very nice feeling. However, deep down I knew I was

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unsettled and the past was still buried, but not dealt with. Things with me were never what they seemed. My past was always buried under my busy life and when I was not busy, I was manically depressed and often suicidal without anyone realising it. I started to meet with a psychologist who had experience with adults who had been abused. My sessions with her were hard. I talked at length and often broke down with the burden of recalled memory. Only Jane knew that I was in counselling. The sessions became too mentally exhausting for me to cope with and I stopped going. I was advised to read a few books and I had been told that writing my story would help me win my battle with the past.

My born again atheism was something that I struggled to fully understand. I told people I was a ‘Born Again’ atheist. This is an ambiguous title. People are never sure if I mean I am an atheist that’s been ‘Born Again’ as a Christian, or a ‘Christian’ who is born again as an atheist. I like this enigma. I think it is my business what I am and what I believe, and no one else’s. Just like the apostle Paul, I have a freedom that is not understood by those infected by man made religion.

On Christmas Eve 2002 I received a telephone call from my biggest client in London. It was not good news. The group funding the Christian business magazine had run out of cash and were not 162

proceeding any further. This left me with a huge production and printing bill. I had already lost my other advertising client to a competitor in the previous month and to top it off, a bad investment in a mobile steam therapy business had left me around forty five thousand pounds in personal debt. In spite of this, we had a good Christmas and I hit the credit cards to the max. I also hit the bottle.

On the third of January 2003 I declared personal bankruptcy, as did Jane. We rid ourselves of more than one hundred and fifty thousands pounds of personal and business debt. We walked out of the Bankruptcy offices as penniless people with no known assets. We had a cup of coffee in a café close by and made a new plan. Afterwards we set up a new bank account and returned home, free of the worry of debt.

The new plan was for me to get a ‘proper’ job and never to do business ever again. Jane was fed up, understandably, and my health was not good. I looked for work for three months and found nothing. I was either too old, over qualified, or plain unemployable. I lived in a farming community and I could not even get a job shovelling cow shit!

I was at an all time low and ready to give up on life. I was tired,

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disillusioned, and heading back to my bed to hide from life.

In April 2003 yet another change to my life arrived. A friend from the village, who knew of my past experiences, came to me and asked if I would help her employer to rescue his failing company. The company was a childcare service in the private sector. With nothing to lose I met her boss and subsequently accepted a contract.

This was something very different for me. I had a lot of personal issues concerning childcare, as you may expect. The guy who owned the company had built a service that was offering special care to young people who had come to the end of the line with other types of childcare. The company, I will call it ‘Conical’, had received a threat from their bankers of forced closure. The boss I met was stressed, worried, and buried under a mountain of threatening letters. The Bank was pulling the plug in one month’s time. We chatted openly and I was very honest with him about my situation. However, he was desperate, and he offered me a job as Business Development Manger and wanted me to start immediately. I had nothing to lose so I jumped in feet first.

I am not going to bore you with the details, but I will say that we turned the company around. It took three years of hard work,

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ducking and diving, and boat loads of marketing creativity on my part. The company prospered and I became a major shareholder and the company secretary. Life was good again. I had a company car, an expense account, and an even higher salary. I loved this new business. It combined all my past business experiences with a service that changed lives. It was providing the very best in a specialist area of childcare. I felt like I was making a real difference to the young people who had similar troubles to those that I had experienced.

Here comes the ‘However’.

Three years into this business, the tide of a united team turned. This time it was a break up of partnership. There were three of us who were all equal partners and shareholders. All I can say here, is that I could not continue working with them when, in my opinion, the agenda of the company became exclusively motivated by profit gain and personal wealth, which I felt was being achieved at the expense of the loyal staff and the children in our care. This was not something I could square with myself and my conscience, not for any amount of cash.

I did try to challenge my partners but they turned on me with their combined power of ownership. I subsequently got out and after

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an expensive battle through lawyers I received a cash sum in exchange for my shares. They then revealed their personal sexual relationship that they had been hiding and they subsequently got married. The company is still trading.

I made many friends while I was with Conical, and many have remained close friends to this day. Our daughter Annabel was born while I was with the company and I was a very happy dad. I had previously accepted that I would never have a daughter, after Natalie had died, so Annabel was very special surprise to Jane and me.

As always, I had to continue to earn a living. I was in a state of happiness with the arrival of my daughter, whilst also going through a big depression caused by the loss of yet another business. I am the type of person who invests my heart and soul into anything I do. Losing money was not so bad, but losing the investment of time and belief in whatever I applied myself to, was never easy. I had to deal with the loss of face, loss of confidence, and the loss of identity.

This caused me to fall again into a private world of manic depression and suicidal thoughts. Back came the nightmares and the feelings of inadequacy. Back came the loss of confidence. Back came the feelings of guilt and the feelings of the shame of my childhood.

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I broke down and fell off the cliff of life. Jane held me up with her love, and my children gave me a reason to carry on. I slumbered for a while and then gathered the last remnant of energy that was needed to try again.

A ‘proper’ job landed on my doorstep, literally. The village had lost its shop and post office and a group of residents had formed a Social Enterprise with a view to raising funds and starting a village shop and post office. I applied for the Managers job and got it.

The project was pre-launch, and on paper looked feasible. The original group were mainly retired folk with no ‘shop’ management experience. They were well-meaning people and genuinely believed that a shop was possible.

I helped to raise further funds and became a jack-of-all-trades in the few months prior to opening, as we had to convert an existing building into a suitable shop premises. The business was being managed through a committee and planning meetings were laborious. It was obvious to me that this was going to be an uphill struggle. The funding was obscure in its make-up, and the location of the shop was out of the main thoroughfare of the village. Also, the committee had become primarily focused on the politics of

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ownership rather than the essentials of basic good business practice. There were too many cooks in the kitchen, too many egos, and a few hidden agendas. However, I had little to lose, apart from my sanity, so I jumped in feet first.

I still live in the village; so I will refrain from using this opportunity to vent my anger and disappointment with some of the people I had to deal with; especially those who carried clipboards and wanted to teach me how to suck eggs. The shop was opened and soon hailed by many as a big success. I again found myself in the press and even on live TV and radio, propagating the values of community ownership. I also found myself in the middle of the division within the village, between those who wanted it run in one particular way, and those who wanted it run in another. Behind the scenes, I was also at battle with some of the committee for nearly twelve months, trying to get agreement and trying to get funding. On top of this, I was sinking into depression and having anxiety attacks, which I kept hidden from most people. The past was raising its ugly head like an overpowering monster who wanted to be set free from the confines of my mind.

I finally resigned in 2007 and left them to it. I had called a meeting of the shareholders in an attempt to bring their attention to the problems I was having with the committee. The meeting was 168

bushwhacked and my concerns were lost in the arguments that followed. Sadly the shop and post office closed six months after I had left, and it remains closed at the time of writing. A few rumours have circulated that accuse me of being to blame. I have also been accused of theft of money. This makes me annoyed; however, I let those who are responsible stew in their own hidden guilt.

I received a question, just after I resigned, from someone in the village. They asked if I was going to leave the village. I answered them with an emphatic ‘no’; I was going nowhere. The village was my family’s home. Two of my children were born here. Why the hell would I move? I have a clear conscience. If others don’t like this, it’s tough. I don’t do running away anymore. This is our home. Richard Devos, who was the founder of The Amway Corporation, was quoted as saying something like this; “When you are faced with a seemingly impassable mountain, do not quit and turn away, just walk around it, tunnel through it, or blow it up, whatever you do, do not quit” I have always held on to this, and still do. It is what has dragged me back from the depths of despair and depression on many occasions.

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13 The third quarter of life This is the thirteenth and final chapter. Some may say that the number is unlucky, but I have always managed my own luck and I have no superstitions about anything. However, I did remove a chapter after months of consideration and deep thought about including it. So it was going to be a fourteen chapter book. The missing chapter will be written on another occasion. I just could not bring myself to write it, let alone include it here. So thirteen chapters it is. After the shop closed Jane insisted that I took time out to recuperate. I was very tired and mentally fatigued. My fiftieth birthday was coming up and I used this as a focal point to bring about some radical changes in my life. Jane and I agreed that enough was enough. The time had come for me to hang up my file-o-fax and my calculator.

Jane organised a party for my fiftieth birthday. I was surprised to see many of my friends from Conical and others who had become

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close friends. Andy had come across the country to surprise me and other friends travelled down from Scotland. I really enjoyed myself and the time spent with them helped me rebuild my confidence. I was reassured by their friendship that all was not lost.

I spent a lot of time with Jane and the kids in the early part of the year. I had time to carefully review my past life experiences and to consider the future and what I wanted to do with it. This was a process of detailed consideration and meaningful reflection. Together Jane and I firstly examined the practical requirements. We wanted to complete our original mission of raising our children in the Epsom valley. We wanted to maintain their way of life. This was paramount to our collective desire for them and any future plan. We also considered ourselves and what it was we truly wanted for our own conjoined life. Jane and I are two sides of the same coin and our love for each other has never waned. To be honest, no matter what has happened in the past seventeen years since I married Jane, she and the children have been my only real reason for living. Without them, I would not have had the determination to carry on with life.

Jane made the point that I needed to firstly deal with my own demons and to realise my own worth as a human being. She said that I needed to find a reason for living ‘for me’ and not for them. Basically, she said that I had to find the real me, the person she loved, 171

who was under the layers of lives that I had lived in my one and only ageing body. I was like an onion that needed peeling back to the heart.

I followed Jane’s advice and took time out to write a list of the things I would like to do and achieve if I had a magic wand. My list was not long or extravagant. I had come to the junction in life when you begin to appreciate your own mortality. I realised that I was in my third quarter of life’s cycle, and that reality came as a shock when it suddenly crept up on me.

The one goal in life that I had achieved was having a family built on true love and a foundation of trust. Jane is responsible for maintaining this for us all. She has invested her love and trust in me, despite the rollercoaster ride I have taken her on. I believe she would go to hell and back for me and her kids. This is enough wealth for anyone, and I am again truly rich. However, wheels do need greasing, and I needed to be involved in a project that would give me satisfaction as well as an income.

I sat down and worked out our needs, not our wants. This analysis made me realise that we were living beyond our income level. We agreed to first deal with the practical issues of finding a

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new smaller home that would also give the children long term security in our village while also drastically reducing the burden on my required income level. I then wrote down a list of the talents and experience that I had acquired over the years. I then considered the sort of occupations that I would really, really, like to have.

I wanted to be a writer. I had always written short stories for the children and I had enjoyed writing and researching numerous business assessments and business plans over the years. I also really enjoyed advertising, marketing and illustrating. In addition to this, my involvements with the internet and magazine publications had always given me great pleasure and artistic satisfaction. I can honestly say that I have also really enjoyed the times when I have been able to help or mentor others. I took this jumble of facts and went on a job hunt. It was seven months ago when I first sat with Jane and devised the plan. That plan looked something like this; 1 Find employment that I would enjoy 2 Reduce our fixed overheads 3 Secure long-term accommodation 4 Spend more time as a family 5 Remove unhealthy stress from our lives 6 Make time for Jane’s career development 7 Come to terms with the past, once and for all

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Today, I am enjoying life to the full. I have a new vocation in life working as part of an acquired brain injury (ABI) rehabilitation team. I am learning about the brain and how it functions. I am working with a Trust that really appreciates its staff and I enjoy the luxury of a reasonably paid job and I work only twenty four hours per week. I work with people who have had an accident that has caused a brain injury that subsequently seriously disabled their everyday functionality. I get the chance, everyday, to help someone re-learn how to communicate. I use the computer and the internet, along with all my visual communication experience as a way to help the clients I am working with. My professional colleagues are great people who have become my friends. For the first time in my life I have a ‘proper’ job, and I love it. I go to work with joy in my mind, peace in my heart and a spring in my step. Well, most days I do!

We have moved home to a brand new, smaller house and we are very happy. We live in a beautiful place surrounded by the countryside. Jane is aiming to become a child psychologist, and is planning to start her studies very soon. Anthony is about to set off for his Royal Marine training, David now runs his own specialist engineering company and Tim, Lawrence and Annabelle are very settled and enjoying their childhoods. I have no contact with my sons Kevin and Nathan, but I never lose hope of seeing them again in the future. I have not seen Gordon or Teresa for many years. I can only

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hope that they are happy and content in their lives.

After reading a few books and speaking with a few colleagues, I feel I have now got my concerns for the past well under control. I am not sure if anyone ever really gets over child abuse, however, I now understand the root causes of my dysfunctional way of life. I now ‘love’ myself and do not blame the ‘child Nigel’ for what happened. I am not going to say that it’s all over and forgotten, as life can change very quickly, however, I will say that I feel more settled and content than ever before in my entire life.

My children keep me grounded with the important things in life. Annabelle sits on my knee and tells me that she loves me everyday. My boys are all doing well in life and I have a mountain of love and respect for them. Jane is the person I will spend the rest of my life with. We have a future together that no doubt will bring challenges, but we will face them together, united in our love. We are resourceful and very fortunate to have each other in addition to our family and friends.

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Epilogue My writing career commenced a few weeks ago when an investor purchased a percentage of the copyright of this book. I auctioned it on eBay and had over 900 hits and 63 bidders. This was very encouraging to me and it catapulted my confidence. Through eBay I have met someone who is now helping me to edit the book ready for publication. I am going to publish this book as an eBook initially, and use the internet as a marketing and delivery system. If you are reading this, then I guess it has worked at least once!

Since completing the book I have been contacted by many ‘care siblings’ and I have now set up a website at www.brynalyn.co.uk which is a place to make contact and get help if it is needed. I am considering a few more books, one of which may be specifically about the home we all shared as youngsters. This will be a book of various short stories, based on the shared experiences of the residents of Bryn Alyn. I have learned that many of my ‘care’ siblings consider the home as a great place. I guess we all had different experiences over the many years that it operated. My friend Andy, who has polio, 176

is now also writing his life story. He is one of the most determined people I have ever met. He has climbed many mountains, despite his callipers. We are going to work together in developing a small eBook publication business.

I hope you have enjoyed reading my book and if so, I would be very grateful if you would recommend it to others. Please encourage them to purchase their own copy from www.clickaread.com

This is my new career and every sale will count. Thank you.

If you have read this far, I must thank you for staying with me through my story. I hope it has been informative, entertaining, challenging, and in some way helpful to you. Please contact me through my website if you have any comments. I am now off to the pub for a pint and then, tomorrow, I will make a start on my next book.

Thank you again for buying my book. Nigel King 2008 www.nigelking.info

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What is bipolar disorder? Bipolar disorder, or manic depression, is a medical illness that causes extreme shifts in mood, energy, and functioning. These changes may be subtle or dramatic and typically vary greatly over the course of a person’s life as well as among individuals. Bipolar disorder is a chronic and generally life-long condition with recurring episodes of mania and depression that can last from days to months that often begin in adolescence or early adulthood, and occasionally even in children. Most people generally require some sort of lifelong treatment. While medication is one key element in successful treatment of bipolar disorder, psychotherapy, support, and education about the illness are also essential components of the treatment process.

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What are the symptoms of mania? Mania is the word that describes the activated phase of bipolar disorder. The symptoms of mania may include: •

either an elated, happy mood or an irritable, angry, unpleasant mood

•

increased physical and mental activity and energy

•

racing thoughts and flight of ideas

•

increased talking, more rapid speech than normal

•

ambitious, often grandiose plans

•

risk taking

•

impulsive

activity

such

as

spending

indiscretion, and alcohol abuse •

decreased sleep without experiencing fatigue

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sprees,

sexual

What are the symptoms of depression? Depression is the other phase of bipolar disorder. The symptoms of depression may include: •

loss of energy

•

prolonged sadness

•

decreased activity and energy

•

restlessness and irritability

•

inability to concentrate or make decisions

•

increased feelings of worry and anxiety

•

less interest or participation in, and less enjoyment of activities normally enjoyed

•

feelings of guilt and hopelessness

•

thoughts of suicide

•

change in appetite (either eating more or eating less)

•

change in sleep patterns (either sleeping more or sleeping less)

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What is a "mixed" state? A mixed state is when symptoms of mania and depression occur at the same time. During a mixed state depressed mood accompanies manic activation. What is rapid cycling? Sometimes individuals may experience an increased frequency of episodes. When four or more episodes of illness occur within a 12month period, the individual is said to have bipolar disorder with rapid cycling. Rapid cycling is more common in women. What are the causes of bipolar disorder? While the exact cause of bipolar disorder is not known, most scientists believe that bipolar disorder is likely caused by multiple factors that interact with each other to produce a chemical imbalance affecting certain parts of the brain. Bipolar disorder often runs in families, and studies suggest a genetic component to the illness. A stressful environment or negative life events, such as child abuse, violence, or neglect, may interact with an underlying genetic or biological vulnerability to produce the disorder. There are other possible "triggers" of bipolar episodes: the treatment of depression with an antidepressant medication may trigger a switch into mania, sleep deprivation may trigger mania, or hypothyroidism may 181

produce depression or mood instability, situations that trigger old memories of traumatic events can also induce the disorder. It is important to note that bipolar episodes can and often do occur without any obvious trigger. How is bipolar disorder treated? While there is no cure for bipolar disorder, it is a treatable and manageable illness. After an accurate diagnosis, most people can achieve an optimal level of wellness. Medication is an essential element of successful treatment for people with bipolar disorder. In addition, psychosocial therapies including cognitive-behavioural therapy, interpersonal therapy, family therapy, and psycho education are important to help people understand the illness and to internalize skills to cope with the stresses that can trigger episodes. Changes in medications or doses may be necessary, as well as changes in treatment plans during different stages of the illness.

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