Whatever happened to... James Bulger's mum?
Saturday 16th June 2007
People often say I've got a lovely home. They comment on the cream swag curtains, or the thick carpet. It should be, given the time I spend in it. These days I'm virtually a prisoner here. The only time I venture out is on our weekly trip to Asda, and even then, my husband, Stuart, 31, has to come with me.
Our sons, Michael, 13, Thomas, 8, and Leon, 7, have learnt not to ask to play out the front any more because the answer's always no. You're probably thinking that I'm over-protective.
But when you read what I've been through, you'll understand.
Back in February 1993, my son, James Bulger, was just 2 when he was brutally murdered by Jon Venables and Robert Thompson. They became the youngest people in Britain to be convicted of murder in 250 years. The worldwide headlines were endless: Boys aged 11 stoned toddler to death. Police released CCTV footage of James being led away by his killers.
I'd nipped to The Strand Shopping Centre in Bootle with James to pick up some pork chops.
One minute he was next to me in the butcher's, the next, he'd vanished. The police launched a massive hunt. Cameras flashed as I sobbed through a press conference. But never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined what would come next.
Did I cry or vomit on the spot when police broke the news? I honestly couldn't tell you. My body just shut down. Unable to face going back to the house I shared with James's dad, I stayed with my mum, Eileen.
The details that emerged were beyond belief. At 3.40pm, the boys marched James to an isolated spot by the railway line. There, they used a rusty iron bar to beat him, and sexually assaulted him by inserting objects into his body. They stripped him and splattered him with blue paint. When he was dead, they lay his body across a railway line. Can you imagine how it feels, even now, 14 years on, to hear that?
I want to moan, to scream, to thrash about. I can't bear to think of my precious son in one second of pain, much less being tortured. Back then though, I was just a zombie.
Weeks after the funeral, I found out I was pregnant. Knowing I had a new life in me, helped shake me out of the coma of grief. By the time Thompson and Venables appeared at Preston Crown Court, I was heavily pregnant and full of hatred.
In the courtroom, I could only see their backs. Dressed in suits and ties, and flanked by social workers, I watched in disgust as their shoulders shuddered. The press reported that they were crying, but I swear their shudders were down to arrogant giggles. Were they sorry? Were they hell.
As the judge summed up, I closed my eyes.
'It was such a cruel act these boys carried out. They are going away for many years,' he said.
Justice was served. Or so I thought.
Two months later, the same judge recommended they serve a minimum of eight years in
a young offenders' institute. There was outrage, but it quickly became old news. For me, it was just the start. My marriage to James's dad collapsed, and on 8 December 1994, I was rushed into hospital for an emergency Caesarean.
As I held the 4lb 14oz baby boy in my arms, I blinked back the tears.
'He looks just like James,' I whispered.
Same big blue eyes, same chubby cheeks. I named him Michael.
'I can't do anything for James, now, but this baby needs me,' I decided.
It helped to ease the pain, and when we left hospital, I moved into a new house in Kirkby, Liverpool. I couldn't bear to leave the memories of James behind. So I insisted on packing all his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle toys, and ripping out the fire surround with his little fingerprints on, and bringing them all with me.
The press hounded me, and I couldn't even nip to the shops without people pointing. It was a full three years before my friend, Lesley, persuaded me to leave Michael at home with my niece, and go for a night out at the Cavern Club, Liverpool. I was standing at the bar when
a good-looking man sidled up next to me.
'I'm Stuart,' he smiled. 'So are you married? Kids?'
Unlike most people, he obviously didn't recognise me. And I certainly wasn't going to tell him.
A few minutes later, his mate whispered something in his ear.
'I'm so sorry if I've offended you,' Stuart said. 'I didn't realise who you were.'
We spent the whole night talking, and I actually enjoyed myself for the first time in years. We started to see more of each other, but although he was really good with Michael,
there was no way I'd trust him with my son. Not without a police check. And even when that came back clean, I still wouldn't leave them alone together.
But thankfully, it didn't put Stuart off, and gradually, with his love, I started to feel alive again. God only knows what he saw in me, but when I fell pregnant in October 1997, we were both over the moon.
We married in September 1998, and I refused to talk about James, but the next day, I laid my bouquet on his grave.
'You're always in my heart,' I whispered.
The following year, our son, Leon, came along. But my happiness was short-lived. By the time Leon turned 3, Jon Venables and Robert Thompson had finished their eight-year sentence. Stuart and I went to the High Court in London. The Lord Chief Justice said there was 'no constructive purpose' in keeping them locked up.
'Is this all James's life is worth?' I sobbed.
While I couldn't leave the house without being hounded, my son's murderers were given new identities so that they'd be free to live their lives in peace.
Suddenly I felt so vulnerable. They'd killed a child once, so what was there to stop them doing it again? I felt a desperate urge to protect my three boys.
When they were released, I was so terrified, the police fitted a panic alarm at my house.
I couldn't stop thinking about the pair of them. What did they look like? Did they have girlfriends? Friends? Jobs?
And it wasn't long before strangers started contacting me to tell me where they were living. God knows how they knew. Three years after their release, an anonymous letter arrived.
'I know where Robert Thompson is,' it said.
A cold shiver shot up my spine. For over 10 years I'd wanted to confront him. Would I be able to contain myself if I saw him?
I got in my car and drove to the address. Then I sat and waited until he emerged. I would love to blow his cover, to tell you exactly where he was, but because he's been granted anonymity, I can't. But I can say, I will never forget those dark, evil eyes as long as I live.
I'd always said if I ever saw him I'd kill him with my bare hands. Instead, I froze. It sounds strange, but just knowing where he was made me feel like I had power over him. Knowing that my son's killers are out there, going to university, having girlfriends and children, seems so unfair. James will never experience those things.
On 16 March 2008 he would have turned 18. I imagine him being tall with mousey brown hair and freckles. For some reason I think he'd be a mechanic, and I'm sure the girls would love him.
It goes without saying, the press will go crazy. Part of me understands their fascination. After all, Venables and Thompson are still out there. When I look at my three brilliant sons, I still can't believe I've managed to find happiness.
But part of me will always be missing. I've never taken anti-depressants or had counselling, because I want to come to terms with the grief myself. I never ever want to stop feeling sheer raw pain, because if I do, it will be like accepting that James is gone. And that's not right. I'm his mother, and I will carry him in my heart always. And as long as he's there, the pain, hatred and anger for his killers will be there too.
Want to read more gripping true life stories from Pick Me Up? Check out:
Frank's deadly secret
The conwoman preying on lonely hearts