Frank's deadly secret
Emily Hawkins and Frank Empson, Real Lives, Pick Me Up, Issue 29
Thursday 19th July 2007
The massive grin on my boyfriend, Frank Empson's face said it all.
'I've passed!' he cried.
'Well done,' I cheered.
In his hand, he clutched his driving test certificate. It's a huge milestone for any 18-year-old, but for Frank, it meant so much more.
'Now I can drive, it'll make Mum and Dad's lives so much easier,' he said.
Family came first with Frank. We'd been going out together for four months, and it's one of the reasons I thought he was so special. Two years earlier, his dad, Steven, 53, had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, a disorder that attacks the nervous system. Sufferers gradually lose the ability to walk and talk. Steven had been forced to retire from his engineer's job at Stansted airport, and now relied on a walking stick to get around.
Frank's mum, Rose, 52, worked long hours on the tills at Tesco to make ends meet.
'Now I can drive Dad to hospital appointments, and I can take Mum to work,' Frank said.
Along with his brother, Lenny, 22, Frank had to carry a lot of responsibility on his shoulders. Not that he let it hold him back.
He was doing Sports Studies at Hertford Regional College, and played basketball for a local team, the Ware Leopards. He was so good, he'd won a scholarship to play basketball at Syracuse University in New York. His plan was to move out there in a couple of years' time.
'You can come, too,' he'd said to me.
'Maybe,' I smiled.
But over the next few months, Steven's condition deteriorated. His speech became slurred, he got forgetful, and soon, he was forced to use a wheelchair. Frank watched telly with him, fetched him drinks and wheeled him to the shops and back.
'Keep smiling, Dad,' he'd say.
But, huddled up in his bedroom, it was Frank himself who needed to be reminded to keep smiling.
'I wish there was something more I could do to help,' he said.
'You're doing all you can, Noodle,' I insisted.
That was my nickname for him, because he loved Chinese takeaways.
We'd now been dating for a year, when Frank came round to see me one day with some exciting news.
'I think I've found a cure for Dad,' he said.
'What are you talking about?' I gasped.
He explained that he'd read an article in a newspaper all about stem cell treatment for people suffering from MS. Patients were injected with stem cells taken from the umbilical cords of newborn babies. The research was still in its early stages and there were no guarantees. But worst of all, treatment wasn't available in the UK. You had to travel to the Netherlands, and it cost £13,000.
'We don't have that sort of money,' Frank gasped.
'We could fundraise?' I suggested.
'It would take years to raise that sort of money,' he shrugged. 'Dad doesn't have years.'
It seemed hopeless.
But I was excited when, a few weeks later, Frank installed a safe in his bedroom wall.
'Have you thought of a way to raise the money?' I asked him.
'No,' he snapped. 'It's just for my iPod. Lenny's always taking my stuff.'
'Oh, right,' I said.
Seemed a little extreme. But then, I knew what brothers could be like.
Then one night, two months later, I turned up at Frank's house before he'd arrived home from college, and I noticed that the safe door was ajar. I knew I shouldn't, but I couldn't resist a peak.
'What the…?' I gasped.
My eyes darted from a pile of money to a clear plastic bag, holding what looked like bits of grass.
Then I heard a noise behind me.
I spun round. It was Frank. What he told me next completely floored me.
'It's cannabis,' Frank said.
He'd started selling it as a way to raise the £13,000 he needed for his dad.
'It's the only way,' he shrugged.
'I'm not happy about it,' I sighed. 'But I know how desperate you are, so I won't ask any more questions and I won't tell anyone.'
Frank gave me a hug.
'I promise I'll be careful,' he said.
Four months later, in March last year, Frank and I spent the day shopping, then went back to his house with a takeaway. After dinner, we went to Frank's room to watch Mickey Blue Eyes. About halfway through the film, there was a knock at the front door. Without saying a word, Frank nipped downstairs.
'It's for me, Mum,' he shouted.
I heard voices. Then a strange muffled sound, followed by a thud. What was going on?
I jumped up and ran downstairs.
'Frank?' I called out.
That's when I saw the two masked men in the hallway. One was wearing a balaclava. The other one, wearing a blue bobble hat and a scarf wrapped round his face, was punching Frank over and over.
'Get off him,' I screamed, launching myself at him.
Suddenly, Rose appeared at the living room door.
'He's cut his neck,' she screamed.
Frank was coughing so much, he couldn't speak. But as he lifted his hand from the left side of his neck, I saw a gaping wound that was gushing blood.
'You've been stabbed,' I gasped.
Frank staggered outside and banged on his neighbours' Bill and Yvonne Taylor's door, before slumping onto their doorstep. Thankfully, they took control. Bill held a towel against Frank's wound, while Yvonne phoned for paramedics. Somehow, Steven managed to stumble outside as well.
I sat down next to Frank and held his hand. He was still coughing and his eyes were closed.
'I love you, Noodle,' I told him. 'Help's on its way.'
Within minutes, the paramedics arrived and put Frank into the ambulance. I wanted to go with him but a policeman pulled me away. After that, Rose, Steven and I huddled together in the neighbour's living room, and waited silently for news.
It was an hour before the police reported back to us.
'Can we speak to you and your husband in private?' they asked Rose.
But as Steven couldn't stand, it was me clinging to Rose as they broke the news.
'I'm so sorry…' the officer began. 'Frank didn't make it.'
For the next few days, I sat in my room, crying my heart out. Days later, two men were charged. I'd never heard of Steven Pascoe, 24, and Jack Harrison, 19, and the police didn't mention any motive. At a loss as to what to do, I began thinking about the money Frank had saved for his dad. His last wish was to pay for his dad's treatment. Now, his dream was shattered.
What if I did it for him? I thought. I came up with the idea of launching a website for donations. It was hard, as I'm no internet whizz. But I found a site that gave a step-by-step guide on building websites and, gradually, the 'Frank's last wish' site came together. I wrote all about Steven's MS, and how Frank had been saving for his treatment. Word soon got out, and cheques dropped through Frank's parents' letter box.
First it was the odd £10 here, or £20 there. Then his friends started organising fundraising events. Frank's basketball team raised over £2,300. Discos made another £4,700, and there were barbecues, sponsored swims and karaoke.
'It's overwhelming,' Rose wept.
Three months after Frank's death, in July last year, we finally held his funeral at Harlow Crematorium and, even then, people were still handing over cash. Six months later, by September 2006, we'd raised £13,000. Tragically, had we done this in the first place, there'd have been no need for Frank's drastic measures.
The next month, Steven flew to Rotterdam to have the treatment. It wasn't a cure, but we hoped it would stop Steven's deterioration. Then, in March 2007, Pascoe and Harrison denied charges of murder and conspiracy to rob at Chelmsford Crown Court. The court heard that Pascoe discovered Frank had £2,000 saved, and persuaded Harrison to join him in the robbery. Pascoe said his intention was to rob Frank, not injure or kill him. Ridiculous. Frank was stabbed four times in the throat, arm and buttocks. That was no accident.
Five weeks later, the jury's verdict wasn't what we'd hoped for. They were found not guilty of murder, but guilty of manslaughter and attempted robbery. Three weeks later, Pascoe was given six years in jail and Harrison got five years in a young offenders' institution. It makes me sick.
It's too early to know what effect the stem cell treatment has had. But if Steven does walk again, I know Frank will be smiling down on us. We'll never forget you, Noodle.