Sean's fatal toyboy fantasy
Sean Powell and his mum Debra Flynn
Wednesday 8th August 2007
An out-of-tune harmonica belted out from upstairs.
'Sean!' I yelled to my 18-year-old son. 'Will you stop that racket?'
'Sorry, Mum,' he shouted back.
But, as I walked back into the kitchen, I couldn't help smiling. It felt good dealing with a teenager.
You see, until six months before, Sean and I hadn't seen each other for 10 years. Yes, 10 years! I was a single mum when Sean was born and life was a struggle. I'm not proud of it, but I'd turned to drink. I'd become an alcoholic and, when Sean was 6, he was taken into care.
In the fog of booze, it hadn't hit home until a few weeks later, when social services told me they'd found a couple who wanted to adopt him. Giving up Sean was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life.
After that, all I knew was that Sean had gone to live with a well-off couple called Scarlett and Jack Powell, 200 miles away in Knoxville, Tennessee. But, as the years passed, Sean was never out of my thoughts.
Eventually, 10 years later, I'd faced my demons, given up the booze and, when he turned 16,
I felt strong enough to find my son. I remembered the road where he'd gone to live and the name of his adoptive mum so, in October 2005, I went looking for him.
A man at the local shop directed me to a house two doors down. Trembling, I knocked on the door. A strapping 6ft lad with green eyes exactly like mine answered.
'Mum?' he cried.
'Sean,' I choked.
'I thought about you every day,' I'd blurted. 'Leaving you was so hard but I was ill — now I'm better.'
Excitedly I decorated his old room, gave him a key and told him to visit whenever he wanted. And, amazingly, he did. Every few months in fact. I became so proud as I got to know him. He was a thoughtful boy who loved playing harmonica and guitar.
It was no surprise to find out he was popular with the girls. He'd had a girlfriend, Sheyne, 16, for over a year, but it had fizzled out. Then last February Sean was with me and using my spare mobile. It kept bleeping with messages.
'Who's that?' I asked.
'Just a girlfriend,' Sean blushed.
I didn't like to pry but, the next night when Sean was out, the mobile bleeped, so I picked it up. It was a text message from someone called Erin.
Come home, it read. Baby I love u. U r beautiful.
Blimey! She was keen.
Soon my mobile was ringing 10 times a day for Sean.
'Here you go, lover boy,' I said, tossing him the phone.
Sean's face lit up. But he refused to tell me about his new girlfriend. A few days later, the mobile rang so I went to pick it up.
'Don't answer it!' Sean shouted.
'Why?' I teased. 'Worried I might embarrass you?'
'N-no,' he stuttered.
'What is it then?' I asked.
'She's my girlfriend,' he said. 'But she was also my English teacher.'
My jaw almost hit the carpet.
My son... and his teacher?
'What are you doing?' I yelled. 'You have to stop seeing her.'
I sat down, my mind racing. This might be every boy's fantasy, but it was every parent's worst nightmare. Sean had been at West High School for four years, but had left three months ago to get a job. The thought of his teacher touching him made me feel sick.
When Sean finally came downstairs, all he'd tell me was that she was called Erin and she was a 30-year-old student teacher. I had no idea if she was married or single, or how long this had been going on.
'You've got to stop,' I begged.
'But I love her,' he said.
The next day Sean went home.
'Please don't say anything about me and Erin, Mum,' he pleaded.
'I won't,' I promised. 'But only if you end it.'
Three days later, I called him.
'Have you done it?' I asked.
'I'm at the cinema,' he said. 'I'll call you later.'
But he didn't. Strange.
The following night, when the phone rang, I jumped on it expecting it to be Sean. Instead it was a strange woman.
'Sean's been shot,' she said matter-of-factly. 'He's dead.'
I was so shocked, I dropped the phone. This had to be a mistake.
Hands shaking, I redialled the number.
'Who is this?' I demanded.
'It's Erin,' she said.
The teacher who had been sleeping with my son.
'My husband, Eric, killed your son,' she said, then hung up.
Was this some sort of sick prank? I called the number back.
'What's going on?' I yelled.
'My husband found out about us,' she said, crying now. 'He shot him.'
My blood ran cold. This predatory older woman and my son had been caught and now my little boy had been killed for being the 'other man'. Anger, sadness, overwhelming grief. I felt them all.
'You preyed on my son,' I hissed.
'No,' she sobbed. 'I loved him. He asked me to marry him.'
'He was 18, for God's sake,' I raged.
I'd only found him 18 months earlier and now I'd lost him again. This time for good. The agony and regret was indescribable.
The next day, Scarlett rang to tell me Erin's husband, Eric McLean, 31, had been charged with murder.
'Sean had been having an affair with her for three months,' she wept.
Erin even had two sons aged 11 and 7. What was she thinking?
A month later Eric McLean appeared at Knox County General Sessions Court charged with second-degree murder. I shuddered as I heard an officer describe how, when he opened my son's car he'd never seen so many bits of brain splattered everywhere. He'll be tried January next year. I just hope he'll be locked away for a very long time.