Dad shopped son to police!
Dad shopped son to police!
Saturday 23rd August 2008
If there were two things that just didn't belong in the same sentence it was my brother, Paul, and bullets.
'You must have got it wrong,' I gasped.
'No, I haven't,' my dad, Neil, 43, said. 'Paul's got a bag of bullets. The kind you use in a handgun.'
'I just can't believe it,' I protested, as we stepped inside the house my mum, Ann, 44, shared with my brother, Paul, in Nelson.
'Shaun told me,' Dad went on.
'He's just seen Paul showing his mate the bullets…'
I knew there was no way my fiancé, Shaun, 24, was lying. But I thought there must be some rational explanation. After all, what would my brother want with bullets? Paul was a good lad. Mum suffered from mental health problems and had split up with Dad seven years earlier. For the past six months, Paul had been her full-time carer. So why the hell would he have live ammunition in the house?
Paul wasn't home, so I followed Dad as he raced up the stairs to Paul's bedroom and grabbed a plastic bag from the top of the airing cupboard.
'Gun cartridges,' he said, peering into the bag. 'Eleven of them.'
Paul had been mates with the same group of lads since school. I couldn't see any of them being involved in gun crime.
'I'm going to have to call the police,' Dad said.
'Don't you think we should talk to Paul first?' I panicked.
But Dad was already talking to the operator. I couldn't help feeling it was a bit harsh. But it was too late now.
'They're on their way,' Dad said, slamming down the phone.
Just then, Paul got home and headed into the kitchen. It can only have been five minutes before the police arrived. One officer ran straight upstairs with Dad, the other rushed into the kitchen.
'What's going on?' Paul asked.
'We found a gun under the bed!' Dad gasped, as he and the officer came running back down the stairs. A gun, under Paul's bed? No way, it just couldn't be.
Only the officer didn't see it like that as he stormed into the kitchen.
'We're arresting you for possession of a firearm…' he told Paul.
I burst into tears, as Paul was handcuffed and taken out. Dad stood there in shock.
'Why did you grass me up?' Paul shouted at him.
'We should have spoken to him first,' I wailed, wiping away my tears as the car sped off.
'But it was a gun, love,' Dad replied, his voice shaking. 'With 11 bullets. That could be 11 people's lives.'
Paul spent the night at Burnley Police Station and, the next day, he was charged with the illegal possession of a firearm and ammunition at Burnley Magistrates Court. Afterwards, he was released on bail, on the condition that he signed on three times a week at Burnley Police Station. Back at Mum's, later that day, I confronted him.
'What the hell were you doing with a gun?' I demanded.
Paul sat at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands.
'These lads I know put pressure on me to look after it,' he said. 'I was scared, Sis. But I'd never have used it. Please believe me.'
'I do,' I said. 'But who were these people and why the hell did they ask you to look after their gun?'
'It doesn't matter who they are, Sis,' he said. 'But I couldn't say no.'
Paul wouldn't speak to Dad, and part of me didn't blame him.
'He should have given you a chance to explain first,' I agreed.
But another part of me knew that Dad was right. After all, what sort of people force a 19-year-old lad to stash away a gun? Over Christmas, Dad and Paul made up, with Paul saying that Dad had done the right thing.
'Those lads were no good for me,' he admitted. 'I won't see them again.'
The case was adjourned in January, because forensic tests weren't back. But this April, he was back at Burnley Magistrates Court, where he entered a guilty plea. Forensic tests had shown that the gun was a starting pistol, which had been modified to fire real bullets. But Paul's fingerprints weren't on it. Just as he'd said, he'd been given it in a plastic bag and hadn't touched it. All I could do was hope and pray the judge would realise that Paul had made a mistake. That he'd got mixed up with the wrong crowd.
That night, when I got home from work as a machinist at a biscuit factory, I went round to see Dad.
'The minimum sentence for possession of a firearm is five years,' he said.
They didn't always enforce it for under-21s, but I was still worried, as I thought of my little brother, locked up for five years with criminals. Then, on 19 June, he appeared at Burnley Crown Court for sentencing.
The case was adjourned overnight, but by the next morning, the judge, Christopher Cornwall, had reached a decision.
'I'm sentencing you to three years,' he said. 'The pistol you were looking after was capable of firing live rounds. Your intention was to return this lethal weapon to dangerous men who were intent on using the gun to achieve their criminal aims.'
Paul stood there in shock, and by the time we got outside the court, we were all crying. Three years is a long time. OK, so Paul will probably be out of the young offenders' institute in 18 months. But how will he cope in there? And who'll look after Mum? Two months on, Mum and Dad have been to see Paul and I've spoken to him on the phone. He was quiet and asked how Mum was. I'm looking after her as much as I can, and Shaun and I have put our wedding on hold until Paul's back home.
I don't blame Dad any more. He was just trying to do the right thing. None of us wanted Paul to end up in prison, but at least he's out of the way of the people whose gun it was, and hopefully, when he gets out, he'll be able to make a fresh start.