The emotion, interest and press attention increased tenfold on Saturday, 20th February at 6:40pm, when Robert Thompson and Jon Venables were charged with my baby’s abduction and murder. At Marsh Lane Police Station in Bootle the investigating team were in shock, one officer simply said ‘it was utterly horrific’ before welling up.
What did I feel? Relief they had been caught but not much else – my baby was still dead so what else could I possibly feel? I remember climbing the stairs to bed safe in the knowledge that, if I had my way, I would quite happily never get up again.
Chapter 10
My Baby’s Funeral
What are you supposed to feel when two children are W charged with the murder of your toddler son? There aren’t any rules in a situation like this and a lot of the detail is hazy; I do recall Albert Kirby coming to my mum’s house to tell us what would soon be all over the news. He wanted to do the right thing and tell us in person, although at the time the kind gesture was slightly lost on me, as I was just too numb.
I continued to stay away from the newspapers and TV at the time, but I now know that all the second-guessing started immediately: how could it be that two children had abducted and murdered a baby? What kind of childhood must they have had in order to commit such a heinous crime? What was wrong with our society that no one had stopped two young kids, sensing something was amiss, as they dragged my baby along the streets for three miles?
No one will ever know what drove those two boys to do what they did, but I want to be clear on one thing here: I know that Venables and Thompson went out to abduct and kill that day. What they did was no accident and their attempted abduction of another child that very morning proved it. I also know that some of the officers involved in their arrest and eventual charging agree with me, one of them saying, ‘There was no remorse, absolutely no remorse. I won’t ever be convinced there was a shred of remorse for what they did.’
I have had to work hard over the years not to let my feelings of anger swamp me, and I am not going to examine their backgrounds and the various theories out there to explain why they murdered my child. All I know is that they killed my two-year-old baby and took away his whole future, wrecking mine in the process. No amount of psychoanalysing is going to change those facts.
It seemed that we had started working with Sean at just the right time because, once it was public knowledge that the police had arrested and charged two ten-year-olds, the floodgates opened and everyone was in danger of being washed away. Sean was thrown in at the deep end when it was announced that the two boys would be appearing in Bootle Youth Court on the Monday morning. There was no way I could go and Ralph wasn’t up to it either – we wouldn’t have been allowed into the courtroom in any event, as it was a youth court – but we did both want to know what was happening so we asked Sean to go as our representative and say a few words on behalf of the family. Emotions were at breaking point in Liverpool. The idea that two of the city’s own had done this to a tiny boy set off a fizzing anger that threatened to spill over outside the court.
The press were out in force hoping for the money shot: there were hundreds of cameras poised and ready for either a picture of the boys looking vulnerable in the back of a police van or a shot of the angry crowd boiling over. They ended up with neither as the police sent out a decoy vehicle as a distraction until it was safe for Thompson and Venables to be escorted out. For our families, the court circus took us one step closer to knowing when James’ body would be released for burial. Thank God I didn’t know it at the time, but the individual legal teams for Thompson and Venables had the right to decide if they wanted their own independent post-mortems because their clients had been charged with murder. They didn’t do this, but I truly think if I had realised it was even a possibility it would have finished me off completely – it broke me enough to think of him being cut open once, never mind three times.
The house was at its busiest over the following week, people were in and out planning James’ funeral and I would watch the activity going on around me, my head spinning. The only comfort I found was in my room away from all the noise and bustle. The last funeral planned in this house had been for my dad and I know it brought back all sorts of bad memories for my mum. We still couldn’t really talk about what had happened, nor could Ralph and I. He was finding his solace in the bottom of a bottle, I was finding mine in silence, but between us we tried to plan the best send off for our son that we could manage. I will forever be grateful to my brother Ray, who stepped in and took over all the admin and planning. He was the person liaising with the police about what we could expect and it soon became clear this wasn’t going to be a small family funeral as I’d hoped.
We had already buried one child, but with Kirsty the funeral was different, not least as the hospital had taken care of all the arrangements. I had also just given birth and didn’t have a clue what was going on, so I’d been grateful to have it all sorted. Although the loss was heartbreaking, when Kirsty died we hadn’t had the chance to get to know her for nearly three years – she didn’t have a favourite toy to be buried with, a favourite outfit that I could dress her in, a special chair that she sat on or a special teddy she couldn’t sleep without. We didn’t know where to start with James – I should have been running behind my little boy as he drove his go-kart round the park, or pushing him on the swings, not picking out a casket for his body. A body that was so tiny that in the end we had to have one specially made.
We couldn’t view James – as the funeral approached I did ask if I could see him one last time but I was advised by the police not to. I didn’t get a chance to touch my little boy, kiss him goodbye or tell him how much I loved him. Perhaps it was for the best as my imagination had already been working overtime at the thought of what he might look like after all that had happened to him. When I think back now, I am glad that I get to remember his cheeky face the way it always looked: with that wide smile and those mischievous eyes. At the time I don’t think I could have survived any more agony.
It took every single ounce of strength to get through the planning stage, and the small details were the ones that nearly killed me. People were so generous – the funeral directors, Graham Clegg, refused to take any payment for burying James and it was the same with the coffin company. It was those acts of kindness that helped me just about keep my head above water. There was one thing that only I could do and that was to decide what James should wear for his final journey. I picked his outfit the day before he was collected from the mortuary and moved to the undertakers. I decided on the corduroy suit that he wore on his last Christmas Day – it had dark brown trousers with turn-ups and pockets and a matching waistcoat, I finished it off with a cream roll neck and some white socks. I decided not to put shoes on him, I’m not sure why.
I remembered the last time James had worn that outfit – I had taken him round to my brother’s on Christmas morning and everyone said how cute he looked and called him a little Steve Davis. He looked so beautiful and grown up – and a bit like a snooker player! He ran around excitedly when he saw all the presents and did a little dance. Now, I couldn’t face looking at the outfit so a member of the family got everything ready for the undertaker to collect. They packed the suit neatly into a bag along with his favourite teddy, a toy motorbike and a torch – I remember thinking that he always took his torch to bed so that he could see in the dark and not be scared, so it was really important he had that with him in his coffin. Once all his things were inside, the bag was handed to the undertaker and it would fall to strangers to dress my baby for the final time. I had dressed and undressed him every single day of his short life, we had never spent a night apart, and it killed me that it wouldn’t be my hands touching him for the final time. But I was glad to know he was out of the mortuary and being looked after by a firm who knew our family really well. Once he was ready the casket was sealed immediately, as Graham Clegg was determined to protect James in death – as he said, ‘His mum and dad and the famil
y were not going to be able to see him and I didn’t want anyone else to be able to say “I saw him” either.’
Mandy and Jim, who were still our liaison officers, paid a visit to my mum’s a few days before the funeral to talk us through just how enormous the media interest had become and what we could expect on the day. I don’t think I had any idea just how much had been written and said about the case already as I had been tucked away at home, but it slowly dawned on me that the world’s media would be descending on our son’s funeral and I was horrified and terrified in equal measure. Poor Ray was bearing the brunt of all the planning chaos: ‘It was the hardest time – here we were planning a funeral for my baby nephew who had been brutally murdered and I was having to sit in police review meetings discussing air exclusion restrictions – all so that the press couldn’t get shots of my sister burying her child. It was madness and so surreal.’
It became a case of damage limitation – doing what we could to give the press what they wanted so that they didn’t take over the day. There was no way this could be done privately, much as I wanted to, so in the end we agreed to allow live coverage of the funeral mass from inside the church to satisfy the journalists and keep things civilised. We had every news organisation knocking on my mum’s door wanting interviews, as well as access to the funeral. Merseyside Police were amazing and they organised a pool at the front of the church, like a pen almost, to contain the media so they didn’t flow in and out in huge groups. There was a pool for TV and a pool for press – as well as a few designated photographers who would do all the photos and then make them available worldwide to the media. Basically it meant less people there getting in the way of our family grieving. Merseyside Police also imposed a three-mile air exclusion zone over the church and surrounding areas. What they couldn’t stop were the few journalists who tried to pay the homeowners living opposite the church for access to their bedroom windows so they could get shots of us arriving with our son’s coffin.
We decided to hold a Catholic mass and I don’t know how we would have got through any of it without Father Michael O’Connell and his natural warmth and compassion. I am Anglican but Father Michael didn’t even question it. I won’t ever forget what he did for us, he was incredible. Along with Ray, he made sure the service was exactly what we wanted. It would feel like a private and intimate goodbye, even though hundreds of the world’s media would be watching our every move. I had been in bed for two weeks torturing myself and now I had to face the world with no idea how to cope. But somehow, knowing that the service was in good hands, gave me a focus and some strength to get through it, it also meant I had no choice but to leave the house in daylight for the first time since James had been found.
We helped pick all the hymns and music and asked Albert Kirby to do a reading. It seemed only fitting that the man who had searched for our boy, and then his killers, should stand up and play a part in saying goodbye. We also decided to put the special chair that Ralph made for James, the chair he loved to sit on while he ate his meals and watched his favourite cartoons, up on the altar during the service. I picked out some of his favourite toys and decided they would sit next to the casket as we said our goodbyes, so they were close to James for one last time.
I knew that I had to go shopping before the service for something black to wear. I was also advised by Ray’s wife, Delia, that I should buy the biggest hat I could find so that the press couldn’t take any pictures of my face. That was truly the best advice anyone could have given me and I chose one with the widest brim possible. I hadn’t been out in Liverpool since that day at The Strand and I was terrified of being recognised and spoken to, so I went with Delia to Southport for the day. Despite our best efforts, we were recognised pretty early on and ended up going to Skelmersdale instead, where I picked a plain black outfit, a hat and some tights. I remember Delia driving me home as I thought to myself, How can I be buying a new outfit for my baby’s funeral? We drove in silence and as soon as we got home I went straight to bed.
The next day Ralph and I, along with close family, went to the chapel of rest in Maghull so that we could spend time with James’ casket. Father Michael thought it would be important to have a private moment, ahead of all the press on the actual day of the funeral. He also advised it would be a good idea to see the casket in advance of the service.
We had a few prayers and got to see some of the flowers that would be there on the day. I am not sure anything prepares you for the sight of a tiny white box that holds your lively, bouncy, funny, cheeky son’s remains – I could have seen it a thousand times and it wouldn’t have been any less shocking. I stood there, still not understanding how this was happening to me. I had taken my purse out of my bag to pay for some chops and here we were, touching a sealed casket with James inside – what was going on? Ralph and I cried until I didn’t think there were any tears left. I just felt like I had let James down and, in all honesty, if I couldn’t have him back then all I wanted was to be curled up in that casket with him.
Chapter 11
Falling Apart
Monday, 1st March 1993, was the day we put our baby into the ground. Fittingly, it was the coldest day we’d had that year so far – even the weather was outraged. I don’t remember getting ready that morning, but I do remember waiting anxiously by my mum’s front room window for James to come home for the final time. The service was taking place at Sacred Heart Church in Northwood, Kirkby, and James would be buried four miles away in Kirkdale Cemetery in a strictly private service. But first he was coming back to the place he spent so much of his life, his happy place. Our neighbours closed their blinds and curtains as a mark of respect and the procession of 14 cars arrived for us all to follow James on his last journey. The first three cars were completely full to the brim with flowers sent from all over the world by well-wishers. Behind those was the hearse carrying my baby – inside was his bright white casket along with some flowers, a large wreath spelling out his name and a teddy bear made out of carnations. Ralph and I got into the fifth car, the one right behind James’ casket, and even though the church was only 400 yards away, I felt like we were in that car for hours. I don’t think Ralph and I said a word to each other the whole day, we just clung on to each other for dear life. What did shock me was the number of people who lined the streets to see James on his way – there were literally thousands of people with their heads bowed, sharing our pain.
As soon as we pulled up to the church gates, I got out of the car and quickly stood behind the casket – I could hear the sea of clicking cameras and I put my head down – it stayed that way for the whole service. Ralph and his brother Phillip had agreed to carry James’ casket along with my brothers Ray and Gary, so we all walked slowly into the church. Ray said to me for this book, ‘To be honest all I can remember is looking down at my feet the whole time, desperate not to trip or stumble in any way. I was carrying the most precious cargo and I had been so honoured when you and Ralph asked me to help take James on his final journey. As far as I was concerned there was no bigger job and I wanted to do you and James proud. I had to keep it together for both your sakes, but my God . . . ’
I remember a few things – the church was absolutely packed and the seat Ralph had made for James was there at front on the altar waiting to receive James’ casket. But what I remember most of all was walking down the aisle and seeing rows and rows of black shoes – some polished, some with laces, others with buckles, round toes and scuffs. All I saw was a sea of black and I didn’t raise my eyes as I shuffled to the front pew to take my seat.
James was placed down gently at the front and Ralph sat beside me, holding my hand tightly. I tried to look at the casket holding my baby just once but I couldn’t do it – because how could I look at a box with a lid on and know my son was lying in there, dead and cold and gone? His picture was on top of the casket – his big, beaming smile filling the church – and I remember saying to myself, This is a fucking nightmare and I am going to wake up from it any mi
nute. The only way I could hold it together was to keep my eyes down – I saw a corner of white and a flash of a silver handle, the photo, the corner of his chair and some of his teddies and I thought, No, that’s not my son, that’s not my baby. And I didn’t look up again, not once, I didn’t trust myself.
I remember Father Michael’s sermon starting with the words, ‘Everyone’s heart absolutely goes out to you,’ and saying that he wished he could bring James back to us, but the words that really struck a chord with me were, ‘We are going to miss him every day for the rest of our life because we never forget and won’t ever get over him. Time does not heal. Time just helps us cope a little bit better.’ I remember thinking, Really?
The hymns and readings we had so carefully picked out passed in a blur – I was inconsolable, taken over by deep and scarily dark grief. I remember ‘Heal the World’ by Michael Jackson coming out of the speakers and immediately imagining James dancing right in front of the TV, throwing his head back as he did another dance move. Extraordinarily, Michael Jackson actually got to hear about his song being played at the funeral and he sent us some flowers and a condolence note – I couldn’t get over the fact that news had travelled so far, it was one of many touching moments in the dark days after the funeral.
Once the requiem Mass was over everyone stood up and started to file out of the church to Eric Clapton’s ‘Tears in Heaven’. Ralph and the others picked up our son for the final time and placed him in the car for the journey to the cemetery. Again we saw crowds and crowds of people bowing their heads and nodding as we passed through – even the traffic had stopped for us as a mark of respect. We sat in silence as we made our way to the cemetery and James’ final resting place.
I Let Him Go: The heartbreaking book from the mother of James Bulger Page 9
