Please, Daddy, No: A Boy Betrayed

by Stuart Howarth

  Tracey was coming to see me every day, and Mum came, and Christina, although she was so upset she just kept crying all the time. On one occasion when Tracey got there to sign in the guard said, ‘Haven’t they told you, love? He’s been shipped up to Broadmoor.’ Tracey immediately burst into tears. ‘It’s all right, love,’ he said. ‘I was only joking.’ Dad would have appreciated that sort of humour. Another time they came to tell me that my dad was there to see me. I felt the blood draining from me. Was I going insane? Was he not dead? Was he coming after me? It turned out it was Trevor, who must have told them he was my stepdad.

  The whole family had had to give long statements to the police and to the child protection team as everyone tried to piece together the extent that we had all been abused. They were obviously shocked to discover that I’d been keeping so much to myself over the years. They all knew that I’d had a lot of batterings because they’d seen them happen, and there had been all the abuses he’d done to us together, like watching the movies and reading the magazines, but they had never realized the extent of what he’d been doing to me whenever he got me on my own. I was equally horrified as I started to learn more details of some of the things he’d done to Shirley and Christina, which they’d never mentioned to me.

  Mum also talked about things she had seen or he had made her do, which showed that she had been as much a victim of his cruelty and perverted appetites as the rest of us. Every day seemed to bring more and more revelations as the police and my new solicitors struggled to find out everything that had gone on in the past which might have led up to the terrible moment when I grabbed the hammer and fought back. At the same time the police were uncovering all about my life around the clubs, associating with known gangsters and drug dealers, being part of the world of the doormen. They were trying to prove that I had taken the hammer with me, because Trevor had lost one just like it, which would have shown that the killing was premeditated and not self-defence at all.

  It was hard for my family and friends to get to Liverpool, so I was relieved when my transfer to Forest Bank in Salford came through. Despite being really pleased, I was also worried about having to travel all the way there in the sweatbox, frightened at the thought of being in such a confined space for so long. At first I refused to get into it, worried that if I had a panic attack in there and kicked off it would go on my report and I would begin to look like a madman, someone who was capable of killing a man with a hammer in cold blood. I could then end up in a psychiatric prison like Ashworth or Broadmoor and I knew that once you were in a place like that you were likely never to get out. No psychiatrist wants to take the risk of signing you off as safe and letting you back out into the world.

  ‘I’m not getting on,’ I said to the half-dozen prison officers encircling me.

  ‘You’re gonna have to get on the van,’ the one in charge said.

  ‘Well, you can try getting me on the van,’ I said, ‘but I’ll kick off and I can’t be responsible for what will happen. I don’t want to hurt anybody but I feel panicky today and I can’t cope with a confined space. So please don’t make me.’

  I heard the crackle of a radio. ‘Can you send Big Gareth down to the reception area.’

  I knew Big Gareth because he used to work on the doors in Chester and knew some of the lads I knew. As his name suggested, he was a big guy, the same size as me.

  ‘You all right, mate?’ he asked when he arrived.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘They want to give me a lift on the bus, but I ain’t going on no fucking bus.’

  ‘If you don’t want to go on the bus that’ll do for me, that’s fine.’

  ‘What are we going to do then?’ one of the other screws asked.

  ‘Well, what can you do? What’s up with him?’

  ‘He says he’s claustrophobic and he might kick off.’

  ‘I’m not trying to be funny,’ I said, ‘but I’m feeling volatile today.’

  ‘We’ll have to leave you here then,’ Gareth said, taking a packet of fags out of his pocket and passing me one. ‘But it means you won’t get to Forest Bank. Isn’t there any way you can do this? You’ll be better off over there than here. If you stay here I might be able to get the psychiatrist to write you a letter and they’ll have to take you up in a car with a couple of screws, but I don’t know how long that will take.’ He passed me the remains of his packet of cigarettes. ‘There’s some fags there, give it a few minutes and have a think. There’s no way I’m gping to be trying to manhandle you on here, and I don’t think this lot intend to or they wouldn’t have radioed through for me.’

  The nice thing about Altcourse was that it was privately run by Group 4 Security, and the screws didn’t have the same attitude problems that I knew existed in some of the old state-run prisons. By the time Gareth came back the nicotine had calmed me down a bit.

  ‘I’m going to try to go on,’ I said.

  They didn’t cuff me as they usually did, just let me walk on, sit down and breathe deeply.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said after a few minutes, ‘all right.’

  ‘All right, kid,’ Gareth said. ‘You’ve got fags, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No problem. You take care of yourself. Everything is going to be all right.’

  Nice bloke, Gareth. On the radio Sonique was singing ‘I am free’, and for a moment I felt that whatever they did to me, there was still a little part of me that was free; I was free of Dad because he had finally gone, taking so much of the fear I’d been living under with him. Through the small window I caught familiar glimpses of Manchester and Salford and I felt like I was going home. I’d only been at Altcourse a week and already it was beginning to feel like it had been another dream.

  Chapter Fifteen

  KICKING OFF

  Forest Bank was another private nick, very clean, very tidy, floors polished until they shone. It looked a lot better than Altcourse.

  I had to go through all the usual formalities and then I heard the words, ‘Through here, Howarth. You’re going to be strip-searched.’

  ‘What do you mean, strip-searched?’ I felt the familiar sense of panic rising, memories flashing back. I was going to have to strip in front of strange men? Have them examine me? The terror I had thought I was now free of returned like a juggernaut in the stomach.

  ‘I’m frightened,’ I admitted. ‘I was abused as a kid.’ ‘We’ll be as quick as possible.’

  There was no way they were going to let me off. It was procedure. I was going to have to do exactly as they told me, just like I always had to do for Dad. There was a correct procedure to be followed: top off, top back on. Shoes and socks off, trousers off, boxers off, everything turned inside out and searched. Then I had to squat down so that anything I might have been trying to hide in my rectum would fall out. The two screws were professional and detached; they’d probably done it a thousand times. But I still felt humiliated and abused.

  A lot of the inmates came up to say hello once I was in my cell and to ask if I had drugs. It seemed a pretty friendly place. Although there were bunks in the cell I was on my own, and the place was spotless, with a television and everything. They would play DVDs for us at weekends. The first I saw was The Green Mile, about a guy in prison.

  ‘There’s been a bit of bullying going on here,’ one of the lads told me. ‘Might be all right now you’re here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Bullies don’t tend to bully when there’s a big guy on the wing.’

  There was a big black guy called Junior wandering around the wing, nearly seven feet tall with hands like shovels, shouting and having a go at people. The gossip was that he was knocking off one of the women screws, a blonde. He’d been a major crack dealer in Birmingham and some competitors had set on him and ripped off his dreadlocks, leaving him bald and patchy. I thought that if I was going to have any trouble that would be where it would come from. Altcourse had taught me that if I
wanted to get on inside, I had to be prepared to fight, which I was.

  The wing manager came to see me the next day and I discovered we had a lot of mutual friends in the body-building world. I felt comfortable talking to him, like I’d found a father figure.

  ‘Do you want to work while you’re here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, I’ve never not worked in my life.’

  ‘Do you want a job as a cleaner?’

  ‘I’d love a job as a cleaner.’

  ‘OK, then maybe we’ll see if we can get you a job on the servery.’

  I wondered if Adrian had already put in a word for me.

  I was given the ground floor to clean, mopping it and going over it with a buffer each day. I had to strip the polish off twice a week and reapply it. No wonder the place was so gleaming clean.

  I had no trouble making friends, and I kept my eye on Junior. On my second day there I was mopping and I heard him having a falling out with another lad. He was ‘ wearing shorts, which I knew wasn’t allowed on that floor. The screws were in their office and obviously didn’t want to be involved. I kept on mopping with my head down, putting my mop in the bucket to pull it towards me each time I moved on. One time I misjudged it and tipped the bucket over, sending the dirty water across the floor. Junior started laughing and I’ve always had trouble with people mocking me, ever since Dad used to take the mickey about me being ugly, having ‘Spock ears’ and all the rest. I looked up.

  ‘What are you fucking laughing at?’

  ‘Fucking thick you are, mate,’ he sneered.

  ‘What do you mean, I’m thick?’

  ‘You’re a thick Mane. Look at you.’

  ‘If I’m a thick Mane,’ I said, you must be one thick Brummie. Have you seen the state of your head? You’re like a fucking patchwork quilt. Is it like that on the rest of your body?’

  ‘I’ve got hair, I’ve got hair!’

  ‘You fucking prick,’ I said, and at that he dropped his shorts and flashed everything at me, shaking his old man.

  I threw the mop down with a crash and ran at him at full tilt, surprised to see he was already backing off. ‘Come on, you fucking big black cunt!’

  He dived into his cell and I followed him, grabbing hold of him. He immediately squatted down on the floor to protect himself.

  ‘Fucking fight me, you bastard.’

  But he wouldn’t retaliate. I couldn’t let it go because I knew he would have known I’d been abused and by doing that he was taking the piss, but I couldn’t hit him if he wasn’t going to defend himself, so I just gave him a load of verbal and pushed him away.

  ‘Is it over now then, mate?’ he asked. ‘Is it forgot about?’ As I walked out of the cell I could hear the sound of jangling keys as the screws finally decided to come and see what was going on.

  ‘Howarth, what are you doing in that cell?’

  ‘Nothing, just having a laugh and joke.’

  ‘Right, get on with your job.’

  Word spread quickly. Junior was supposed to be the big man, running the wing, but everything had changed in a few seconds. People started coming up to me: ‘Fucking nice one, mate. He’s been shoving everyone about, the big soft twat. You stand up to him and he’s shitting himself.’

  The next day Junior was shipped out. I suppose in a way I became the main man on the wing at that moment. I wouldn’t allow any bullying and I was promoted to the servery, which meant I got first crack at the food, which was far better than at Altcourse. They even gave us cakes and choc-ices and biscuits.

  Tracey would come to see me and would write me a letter each day; she gave me a real feeling of hope, faith that things were going to be all right. I was taking my anti-depressants every morning and life was ticking along OK. My solicitors were also coming in most days. The only problem with visits was that they were supposed to strip-search me every time afterwards, although most of the screws realized how much it upset me and didn’t bother. I was getting on with everyone and going to the gym regularly, writing letters to Tracey, Mum and Christina all the time, improving my health by being off the drugs.

  One young lad tried to give me a hard time when he came in. It started with him shouting at a small lad who was the laundry orderly; then he started staring me in the face, demanding a cigarette. I knew I had to nip it in the bud, so I followed him into his cell after he’d picked up his dinner and faced him down. He hurled his plate of food at me, sending it everywhere. I grabbed him and felt a pain in my arse, like I’d banged into the door. I got him in a grip and let him know that I could have hurt him a lot more if I’d chosen to, and left the cell as I heard the jangle of approaching keys. Only when I got back to my cell did I discover that he’d stabbed me in the backside with his plastic fork, snapping the prongs off.

  I obviously hadn’t warned him hard enough because other people told me he was going round saying he was going to slash me up. We weren’t allowed razor blades, but I’d managed to get some out of the safety razors they gave me. I went back to his cell and threw one down in front of him.

  ‘What’s that for?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘You’re saying you want to slash me up. Go ahead, be my guest.’

  ‘I’ve not said nothing.’

  ‘Yeah you have.’ I rolled up my sleeves and showed him the scars on both my arms. ‘But you need to know that I did these to myself. If I can do that to myself, imagine what I could do to you.’

  ‘All right, all right, leave it.’

  A few hours later he was moved off the wing.

  Christina had been to the police and told them about the paedophile friend of Dad’s from the rough family in Smallshaw Lane who used to babysit us when we moved to Cranbrook Street, and how he used to abuse her. All the old skeletons that I had buried deep in my memory in order to be able to keep going seemed to be coming to the surface at once. At the time I’d thought it was just me he was doing it to and I was amazed to find out she’d been suffering exactly the same treatment. The police came in to get a statement off me, to see if they could put together a prosecution. It brought back some bad memories, but I liked the idea that he was going to be called to account for what he’d done.

  Other police came in to tell me that they’d searched Dad’s house and found all sorts of sex aids and blow-up dolls and pornographic videos. They found that he’d been making secret films through a hole in the wall of family members he had invited to use the shower in his house.

  Trevor had found his lump hammer by then, which helped my argument that I had never taken it with me, that it had been Dad’s hammer I had just grabbed in self-defence. Everyone kept showing me files of information and I started to read even more about how my sisters had been abused. Although I had always had a good idea what had happened, it was still hard to actually see it in black and white and to be faced with the true ferocity of the attacks they suffered.

  There was no separate wing for sex offenders at Forest Bank, so I was constantly aware that I might be mixing with paedophiles and rapists without knowing it. ‘Most of the nonces are in the block,’ other inmates reassured me when I voiced my worries, referring to the segregation area. All the lads on the wing were very respectful. I would tell them when I was having a shower and ask them to respect my privacy because I was a bit touchy about it, and they always did that.

  There was a big fat lad on the wing from Wigan who used to make me laugh. He was about twenty-three stone and I used to bench-press him to entertain the other guys. He was called Mellon, and he used to come into the cell to talk to me. He knew a bit about my past and used to ask me a lot of questions.

  ‘Not surprised you killed him,’ he said. ‘Sounds like a right twat. You shouldn’t be in here.’

  One day he wasn’t on the wing and I was told he’d gone to court. It was only then that some of the other lads from Wigan told me he was inside for battering a little girl, pissing on her and abusing her. I was furious that they’d let me have a laugh and joke with a man who did things lik
e that. I felt like Mellon had been mocking me all the time I’d been talking about my past, that he’d had me over royal. I guess one of the reasons he’d become friendly with me was because he was frightened of what I would do if I ever found out.

  He didn’t come back on to our wing that night, but I knew he would be in the medical section the next morning when I went for my tablets. I had a Scouse friend who was going to help me and I would get him to go outside and get a light off the screw and block his view. I was pretty sure I could have a word with Mellon underneath the camera, so the other screws wouldn’t know what was going on either.

  As I walked into the room he was there. There were screws everywhere and I knew I shouldn’t do anything, but I couldn’t control myself.

  ‘You took the piss out of me,’ I said and hit him, sending him flopping to the ground. The screws whisked me back to my wing.

  ‘What’s going on?’ they wanted to know.

  ‘He hit me.’

  ‘We were there, Stuart. He didn’t hit you.’

  They sent me back up to get my medication and when I came out about twenty minutes later I saw Mellon, surrounded by four or five screws and wearing a neck brace. They pulled him to one side to let me by with the two screws escorting me.

  Later that morning the wing manager came to see me and I knew I’d disappointed him. ‘How could you do that in front of the security manager?’ he wanted to know. ‘Who’s the security manager?’

  ‘He was stood right there, watching you.’

  I tried to explain how it felt to come up against people like Mellon. ‘He was in this cell, sharing coffee and tea and fags with me. You knew what he’d done and you put him into my environment. How does that make me feel? I hate him because he took the piss out of me, because he hurt a little girl and because I’ve shared personal information with him.’