by Paul
On the morning of the visit, I woke up feeling uneasy. We’d been trying not to think about Bridger since the trial had ended and we didn’t even like mentioning his name, unless it was in the context of our campaign against child pornography.
The only time we’d really had a proper discussion about him was a few weeks previously. We’d been at the cinema in Aberystwyth to watch a film called After Earth with the children. The film was just about to start when Coral’s mobile had rung with a call from Hayley. Hayley had wanted to tell us that Bridger had been attacked in prison by another inmate. She was concerned that the newspapers would pick up on the story and that we would read about it before the police had a chance to speak to us.
After the trial, Bridger had been taken to a high-security prison in Wakefield, West Yorkshire. Rumour had it that the other prisoners had been speaking about an attack against him for some time, as they thought it might force him to reveal what he’d done with April’s body.
In the end, it was a fellow inmate called Juvinal Ferreira who took matters into his own hands and slashed Bridger from his temple to his chin using a knife fashioned from a razor. Ferreira had severed one of Bridger’s arteries and he had required surgery, as well as thirty stitches. Hayley told Coral that it was likely he’d be scarred for life.
When Coral came back into the cinema, you’d have been forgiven for thinking she was a football fan whose favourite team had just won the FA Cup.
‘Yes!’ she shouted. People were staring and pointing, but she didn’t care. ‘Paul, someone’s got him! Someone’s attacked him in prison!’ Realising how loud she’d been, she turned to the people sitting next to us and mouthed ‘sorry’, as she shuffled back into her seat.
‘Well, I can’t say I’m too upset about that,’ I whispered, as the opening credits flashed up. Needless to say, I didn’t have to ask who she was referring to.
Of course, under most circumstances we didn’t condone violence and Juvinal Ferreira was himself a dangerous offender who’d been convicted of murder and rape. Two wrongs didn’t make a right, and even if Bridger was attacked a thousand times it wouldn’t bring April back.
Yet it was impossible to have any sort of compassion for a man who had obviously inflicted such pain and suffering on our little girl and shown no remorse. He deserved to feel at least a fraction of the pain we had to live with every day. Some readers might not agree with our attitude, but I’d challenge any parent to react differently when faced with the same situation. I’ve never been a malicious or nasty person but, as I lay in bed trying to mentally prepare for our visit to his house, I found myself wishing the next attack would be even worse. It was frightening what terrible thoughts this man could make me have.
I prepared breakfast and got Coral up a few hours before Dave was due to collect us at 10.30 a.m. Neither my wife nor I could eat or say much. Dave already had the keys to the cottage, as he’d arranged to pick them up from Andy the previous day and, when I heard the sound of his car engine outside the house, I was gripped by an overwhelming desire to run outside and tell him it was all off, that I’d changed my mind. How could we cope, seeing the spot where this animal had laid our daughter on the floor, bleeding and dying, like a piece of rubbish? It was madness. What were we thinking?
Of course, I didn’t tell Dave to cancel the visit. I took one look at Coral and the pained desperation in her eyes, and I knew this was something I had to do, if not for myself, then for her. I wasn’t sure if the visit would give her any peace of mind but I understood that she couldn’t even attempt to move on until she’d seen the place where our little girl had likely breathed her last.
I let Dave in through the back door and we quickly gathered our things. It wasn’t a time for preamble or small talk.
‘Ready to go?’ he asked, his tone soft but solemn. In unison, we nodded.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Let’s get this over with.’
Coral and I both climbed into the back seat. Normally one of us would have got in the front with Dave but I wanted to be close to my wife so I could comfort her if she became upset on the way there. Hayley, a hardened police officer of many years standing, had been so affected the first time she’d visited the cottage a few weeks into the investigation that she’d had to take the next day off. I could only imagine what it would do to us as April’s parents.
The mood was sombre and none of us said much in the car as Bryn-y-Gog disappeared behind us. I was already thinking about April’s last journey in Bridger’s car, particularly as we passed the petrol station on the edge of Machynlleth where a witness had seen his Land Rover speed past shortly after she’d vanished. What was our little girl thinking, as she was driven along these leafy, remote country roads to her death? The sun would have been setting and she would have known it was getting close to her bedtime. Had she asked to go home or turn back? Nausea consumed me as I imagined Bridger pulling over in some deserted layby to abuse her, his mind warped by the filth he’d been devouring as he sat alone at his laptop. April was so trusting and naive that I hoped with all of my heart that she’d been oblivious to what was about to happen to her.
There are two ways to drive between Machynlleth and Ceinws, and the police believed that Bridger had taken the most direct route, along the main A487 road. They surmised that he’d have wanted to get as far from Machynlleth as he could as soon as possible to avoid detection.
‘Let’s take the back road,’ Dave said, with a quick glance in the rear-view mirror. It was like he’d seen the pain etched on my face and read my mind. Knowing that we were about to see the house where our daughter breathed her last was awful enough – being driven on the exact route Bridger had taken her to meet her end might have pushed us over the edge.
Dave slowed to a crawl as we approached the single-track road which led to the village. I reached for Coral’s hand and knotted my fingers through hers as the car edged along the stony path. It was only then I realised how sweaty my palms were. Coral’s face was white and she was shaking slightly, but I could see the determination in her eyes. She had to do this.
As the small scattering of cottages came into view, I couldn’t help but think how strange it was that this tiny settlement had become one of the most photographed sites in the UK over the past year, splashed all over the pages of newspapers for weeks on end. Hidden in the depths of the valley of the River Dulas, passers-by would barely have noticed its existence before this horrible tragedy took place. Even we, as locals, rarely had any reason to come here. I’d had a friend who’d lived here many years previously, and I’d visited him a few times, but we’d never come here as a family and it certainly wouldn’t have been a place April would have recognised.
Barely more than a dozen houses were visible from the road. Perhaps the only sign of life was a small pub called Tafarn Dwynant, which relied on the custom of bikers and walkers. Most of the locals were elderly and it wasn’t unheard of for a year or two to pass without a single crime being committed here. But now its anonymity was gone forever.
I inhaled sharply as Mount Pleasant appeared on the horizon. The whitewashed cottage stood apart from the other houses and my stomach knotted as I caught sight of the chimney. It looked just as it had in the newspaper pictures, except now the grass outside it had become thick and overgrown.
Dave pulled up in front of the house. Without speaking, we all got out.
The lock was stiff and Dave had to give the door a good push before it swung open. I was immediately overwhelmed by the putrid smell of damp. It was the middle of August, but the house was deathly cold. Both Coral and I shuddered as we walked over the threshold. I wasn’t sure if it was the temperature or what we were about to see that prompted this reaction. It was probably a combination of both. Still in silence, we walked into the lounge. I hardly noticed that all the furniture had been removed.
All I could focus on was the fireplace.
The carpet had been ripped out and there was a big piece of Perspex on the hearth, covering t
he spot where April’s blood had been found. I found myself walking towards it, but Coral seemed frozen to the spot, next to Dave. I followed my wife’s eyes as they travelled from the fireplace to the Perspex cover and back again.
‘Can I have a look upstairs?’ Coral asked Dave. It was the first time anyone had spoken since we’d walked through the door.
‘If you like,’ he replied. I didn’t go with them. I needed a few minutes alone.
Coral recalls:
By the time we were taken to the cottage, I’d for months been consumed by the desire to visit Mount Pleasant. I was never quite sure why, or what it would achieve. I just knew I had to do it.
Nervous anticipation had been pumping through my body as we’d walked through the door. We were only a fifteen-minute drive from Bryn-y-Gog but Bridger’s isolated cottage seemed like a million miles away from our warm family home. With its unkempt, overgrown garden and unmistakable aroma of damp, it had the air of a house that wasn’t meant to be lived in.
I wondered if my little girl had still been conscious when she’d arrived here in the depths of the countryside. If she’d been aware of what was happening, she must have felt so lost and alone, as darkness fell around this bleak house. Would we ever know if she had been crying for Paul and me?
I was shaking as I stepped inside, but I wasn’t sure if it was because I was nervous or because of how cold it was. I looked at the fire and tried to compose myself, as I allowed myself to think about the last time it would have been lit, nearly eleven months previously.
I was strangely calm as my eyes wandered to the Perspex sheet covering the area of the floor where April’s blood had been found. I knew instinctively the grief and anger would hit me in a day or so, and the gravity of it all would be so debilitating that I probably wouldn’t leave the house for days. But, for the moment, it seemed like my body had been shocked into a strange numbness.
I’m not sure why I wanted to go upstairs. Dave and Hayley had told us that there was no evidence from the forensic teams to suggest that April had been on the top floor of the house, but I felt the need to comb every corner just in case there was some cryptic clue as to what had really happened to my little girl. After all, I was her mum. If I couldn’t find the answers, who could?
As I climbed the stairs, my sore knees weak with the effort, I didn’t know what I was looking for. Another chill ran through my body as Dave opened the door to the first bedroom. Unlike the bottom floor, its furniture was still in place. It was, I could only assume, almost exactly as Bridger had left it when he’d walked into Machynlleth with the pretence of joining the search for April.
The bed was unmade and there were clothes lying all over the floor. What had he been thinking, I wondered, as he nodded off to sleep that terrible October night? Had he already been piecing together the ridiculous cover stories he’d use time and time again in the months to come? He was so callous he’d probably slept like a log, while I clung to my daughter’s teddies in her empty bed and Paul paced the living room floor, delirious with worry.
The second bedroom was even more of a tip. Bridger had only lived in the cottage for five weeks and it was obvious he hadn’t attempted to make it look homely. There was a horrible, stale smell and his belongings were scattered everywhere without a second thought for his children, who regularly visited him and probably had to sleep in this disgusting excuse for a spare bedroom.
I stood still for a moment, allowing my eyes to sweep the room, but it was hopeless. There was nothing here that could tell me anything about April. She probably hadn’t even been in either of these rooms.
Dave then took me downstairs to the bathroom. There were little green arrows on the wall and we already knew that these pointed to the positions where spots of April’s blood had been traced. There was also an arrow on the shower curtain and on the bathroom door.
It was nothing I wasn’t expecting. We’d seen plenty of pictures of this room before and during the trial. Yet I still find it hard to put into words how it felt being there in the flesh. Was my little girl dead as Bridger carried her maimed body through here, or was she still dying? I was gripped by an agonising realisation that I’d probably never find out. It broke my heart to think of April suffering but I still craved answers as to what had happened to her. I’d tried to convince myself that visiting Mount Pleasant would give me some closure, but I knew in that moment that I’d never get closure as long as I lived. Bridger hadn’t just snatched our precious girl from the street and murdered her in cold blood; he’d flatly refused to tell us what had really happened, or what he’d done with her, and that was a whole different crime in itself.
My eyes fixed on the green arrows as I realised I’d be tortured by these awful thoughts until my dying day. The nightmares would never end and the tears would never stop flowing. It wasn’t Mark Bridger who had the real life sentence – it was me.
While Coral and Dave had been upstairs, I’d wandered around the ground floor. I’d had a quick look in the bathroom and I’d seen the green arrows on the wall. Then I’d walked into the kitchen, where April’s blood had been found on the washing machine. I hadn’t known what to do next, so I’d gone back into the living room. Without the furniture, it looked much bigger than it had done in the pictures and I could see the marks on the floor where the carpet had been lifted before it was taken away by the forensic teams.
Without thinking, I knelt down on the floor next to the Perspex covering. Almost instinctively I put my hand on the cold, black fireplace and started to weep. My tears weren’t the gasping, throaty sobs I often cried while walking in the hills. Instead they were respectful and almost silent. I wasn’t sure how long I stayed there but it can’t have been much more than fifteen minutes. I was relieved when Coral and Dave reappeared.
‘Shall we go?’ Dave asked, gently.
‘Yes,’ I replied, wiping my eyes as I clambered to my feet.
Coral and I didn’t say much about Mount Pleasant on the journey home. I think it took us both a while to collect our thoughts, as it was few days before we had a proper conversation about it. In a way, we were glad we’d gone. Even I, for all my reluctance, had to admit that I’d had a gnawing curiosity about what lay inside Bridger’s house. But it had far from given us answers. In some respects, it had just thrown up more excruciating questions.
14
April’s Final Journey
After the trial, April’s remains had been taken to Aberystwyth Police Station, as they couldn’t be released to us for a funeral until the coroner’s report had been concluded. The hearing was scheduled for 16 September 2013, meaning we’d have to wait almost four months before we could lay our daughter to rest.
However, we decided to begin planning for April’s final farewell towards the end of August. We wanted it to be a perfect celebration of her short life and we knew it would take a lot of organisation. We wanted the service to be held in St Peter’s Church in Machynlleth. Although we weren’t religious as a family, the church and its vicar, Kath Rodgers, had shown us such kindness and support in the months since April was taken, that it seemed the most appropriate place to have the funeral.
We’d agreed that the press could attend the church but decided on a private burial at the local graveyard to which only close friends and family would be invited. It was important that we kept some of the day for ourselves. We then planned to invite around 120 guests to a wake at the Celtica Visitor Centre. It seemed apt, as this was where so many people had congregated in the terrible first days of the search, desperate to help us find April. We extended this invitation to the police officers and mountain rescue teams as a gesture of gratitude for everything they’d done for us.
We arranged a meeting with a local undertaker, Dilwyn Rees. Dave came along with us, as it was important for the police to be represented. We knew to expect hundreds of mourners, not to mention the nation’s press, and officers would have to close the roads surrounding the church in order to accommodate them.
&nbs
p; Dilwyn was a kind man who told us he’d do everything in his power to make things perfect for us but the meeting was a tough one. We’d had eleven months to prepare ourselves for making these arrangements, but planning a funeral for our five-year-old child seemed unnatural and wrong. Coral was fairly quiet throughout and went straight to bed when we returned home. It was the middle of the afternoon, but she slept for almost six hours. Just after 10 p.m., I took her some coffee and a bowl of cereal and tentatively coaxed her to eat.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sadly. ‘Today just knocked the stuffing out of me.’
It wasn’t long before Coral had drifted off again and I found myself reaching for my diary. It was the first time in a while I’d put pen to paper but the funeral was throwing up lots of new emotions for me.
‘Talking about April’s funeral was difficult and emotional for me,’ I wrote. ‘It’s the thought of organising it. How do you manage a funeral for your daughter, just five and a half years old? We have so little of her – just some dust and a few bits of bone. There isn’t much to put to rest. We don’t have much to show for our sweet and beautiful girl. It’s hard, so damn hard. Some days you just get so beat up and stressed and tired.
‘But I’ve had eleven months to prepare myself for this. Talking to my counsellors helps me a lot but Coral has only just started to talk and face up to the fact that April is dead and there will be a funeral. I only hope talking with the counsellors will help her like it has helped me. It doesn’t make the pain go away, though – it’s always there, that dull ache. A deep sadness washes over me every now and then and I feel like I’m back where we started and it’s October 2012 all over again.
