Hateland

by Bernard O'Mahoney

  His girlfriend, terrified by his outbursts, soon wanted nothing more to do with him. But he wouldn't leave her in peace. His odd behaviour terrified her. She could see no way out. Through experience, I know that the most dangerous person in the world is an extremely frightened one with nowhere to run.

  One day, she asked Paul to collect their daughter from school. She insisted he be there punctually at 3.30 p.m. Paul agreed, but when he arrived he noticed that most parents had already left with their children. The school seemed almost empty. He walked from the main entrance to a side entrance, looking all over for the girl, but there was no sign of her. Growing more concerned, he went back to the main entrance. He called out the girl's name, but no one appeared. As he stood there, he saw three black men getting out of a car. They walked towards him. When they reached him, one said, 'Paul?'

  My brother said, 'Who wants to know?' He was then stabbed four times in the body and left for dead. He recovered - and went looking for the men who'd stabbed him. He wasn't stupid. He knew his ex-girlfriend had set him up to be murdered.

  I think he must have terrorised her into giving him a name. He ended up being stabbed again a month later in Hackney after trying to sever a black man's head with a shovel. He claimed to me from his hospital bed that his victim had been one of the men who'd attacked him. I wasn't convinced. However, he finally accepted that his ex-girlfriend didn't want to see him any more.

  The break-up of this relationship did genuinely upset Paul, although he tried not to show it. Having for so many years seen only his cold and unfeeling front, I was surprised to detect the flickering of emotions other than anger.

  Like my Uncle Bernie, he turned to drink to dull the pain. He'd always drunk a lot - we all had - but that was 'normal' drinking. Now, in the course of a year, he became a full-blown, spirits-guzzling alcoholic. His new status didn't improve his behaviour.

  He began living in a tower block near the Millwall football ground on an estate the News of the World had once described as 'Crack City'. He became friendly with a man and woman who lived together on the floor above. Within a short while, the woman ended up in hospital after being badly beaten by Paul. As told to the police, her version of what happened differed significantly from Paul's. All I know for sure is that this attack marked the start of Paul's final downward spiral.

  I'll never forget the cryptic phone call I received from an over-excited policeman. He said, 'Your brother Paul wants you to know he's been arrested and is in police custody.'

  The news didn't surprise me. Paul's alcohol-induced slide during the last year had ensured he was spending more and more time in custody. I asked what he was in for this time.

  'Sorry, I can't tell you,' said the policeman.

  'Where's he being held?'

  'Sorry, I can't tell you.'

  'Can I talk to him?'

  'Sorry. Not at this stage.'

  Irritated, I said, 'Is there any purpose to this phone call?

  'Sorry?' said the policeman.

  'My brother Paul's in trouble, you can't say what for, I can't talk to him and you won't tell me where he's being held.'

  'He'll be at Tower Bridge Magistrates' Court in the morning. Goodbye.'

  I went to court in the morning expecting to hear about some unfortunate human being who'd been stabbed or badly beaten by Paul for some perceived misdemeanour. I sat down to wait for Paul's appearance. It wasn't the first time.

  After half an hour or so, he shuffled into court in handcuffs. Screws stood near him. He looked grim. Usually, he'd glance round the court to find me, but this time he kept his head down. I felt a fluttering-butterfly sickness in my stomach. I knew something wasn't right.

  The court clerk read out Paul's name, address and date of birth. Then he came to the charges. I'd guessed a shock might be on its way, but nothing had prepared me for what I heard: '. . . is charged with grievous bodily harm and rape.'

  The word 'rape' twisted through my head. I felt dizzy. How could Paul, psychotic as he was, be charged with a nonce charge like rape? He could have been charged with mass murder and it wouldn't have surprised me. Perhaps it wouldn't even have bothered me. But rape? I felt every dirty emotion - and I could tell Paul knew my feelings. He was sitting there, head bowed, his eyes fixed on his cuffed hands.

  The magistrate said he'd be remanded in custody to Belmarsh Prison and he gave a date for his next appearance. Then the screws led Paul away. He shuffled back out, staring at the ground.

  I arranged to visit him in prison the next day. I felt I wouldn't need a jury to tell me if he was guilty as charged. I wanted only the chance to look him in the eyes. From childhood, I'd shared his nightmares, his fears, his pain, his anger, his violence. I felt sure he could neither lie to me, nor fool me. I believed I'd know in the instant our eyes met if he'd indeed added rape to his list of crimes.

  CHAPTER 20

  BURYING THE PAST

  In the visiting room of Belmarsh Prison, my brother sat in a chair near a group of screws. Both Paul and I knew that 'nonces' had to do that for their own protection, because 'normal' prisoners viewed them as the lowest of the low and attacked them whenever possible.

  As I walked towards Paul, I felt anxious in a way I hadn't experienced for a long time. My brother looked down briefly at his hands before looking back up at me. I sat down in front of him and swallowed. He said, 'Bernie, don't you fucking dare ask me if I did this.' He put his head down again.

  I knew what he was saying, but I had to ask him. I had to know the truth. I said, 'Paul, look me in the face. Whatever's happened has happened. Don't mug me off.'

  With his head still down, he started crying, just sobbing quietly. Tears dropped down onto his lap. The last time I'd seen him crying was as a child being beaten by my father. Each and every one of his sobs ripped through me. I felt myself becoming tearful. After a short while, he composed himself enough to talk. He lifted up his head and looked hard into my eyes. He said the rape charge disgusted him. He'd raped no one - and never would. He swore on our mother's life he was innocent.

  He told me the story. He said he'd started an affair with the woman. Her partner had come home unexpectedly and found them having sex. The woman had later claimed Paul had raped her. Her partner had called the police. In his rage at being accused of rape, he'd gone berserk and beaten her badly.

  I felt a surge of relief. I wasn't happy he'd assaulted the woman, but I knew for sure now that he wasn't a nonce. I believed his swearing on our mother's life guaranteed his total honesty. The mere mention of her name would have been enough. I didn't need to know any more. I'd do whatever I could to help him clear his name.

  My priority now was to get him out on bail so we could fight the case. That wasn't easy. He had to stay in prison for a few months until a judge finally granted him bail. He laid down stringent conditions, one of which was that Paul had to live outside London. Without consulting my brother Michael and his partner Carol, I put forward their address in Wolverhampton as Paul's new residence.

  With hindsight, I made a terrible, and almost fatal, mistake. Michael is the quiet, gentle and normal one in our family. He leads an upright life, paying his taxes, observing the law and helping old ladies cross the road. Technically, he's even an ex-public-school boy. My eldest brother Jerry, who'd started earning good money on oil rigs, paid to send him to a posh boarding school. Unfortunately, the toffs sussed he was a commoner - I think he may once have failed to use a napkin correctly - and made his life a misery

  On leave from the army, I visited him at his new school. I found his sunken eyes harrowing. You'd have found more cheer in one of South African Dougie's prisoners. Eventually, I talked my mother into freeing him and he returned gratefully to civilisation.

  Paul moved in with Michael and Carol. He immediately accelerated his self-destructive slide to oblivion. He'd drink a bottle of whisky in the morning, followed by bottles of wine throughout the day. He'd shout, rant, rave and occasionally weep, because he just couldn't c
ome to terms with the rape accusation.

  Life for Michael and Carol became unbearable. After a few weeks of madness, Michael asked Paul to leave. Paul flipped out. In his shattered state, he concluded that Michael wanted to send him back to prison. I was called to the house to reason with Paul. In our family, I fulfil the role of negotiator, problem-solver and peacemaker. The others don't really talk to one another. I arranged a truce. Paul agreed to cut out the drinking. Michael and

  Carol agreed to let him stay until his trial. However, they warned that if he started drinking again, he'd have to leave.

  That evening, England were playing Sweden. I decided to go for a drink with Hughie and my mates at The Crown in Codsall. Just before half-time, the barmaid put the phone on the bar next to me and said, 'Bernie, it's for you. They say it's urgent.'

  When I picked up the receiver, Michael said, 'Bernard, is that you?' He sounded breathless and scared, as if he'd just been crying his eyes out.

  'Yes,' I said. 'What's up?'

  'You'd better come quick. I've just killed Paul.'

  He replaced the receiver before I could speak. I put the phone down, finished my drink in a gulp, said goodbye to my mates and drove at top speed to Michael's. On the journey, I felt cold and drained. In my mind, I accepted Paul was dead. I began thinking of ways to get rid of his body because, if Michael had killed him, I knew he'd only have done so in self-defence, and I didn't want him rotting in prison for that act. One sibling's wasted life was enough.

  I was surprised to see the flashing blue lights of several police cars and an ambulance outside the house. I'd hoped Michael and Carol hadn't phoned anyone else. As I walked to the front gate, two medics began wheeling Paul out on a trolley. I noticed a drip attached to his arm, so I knew he was still alive.

  They placed him in the back of the ambulance. I jumped in behind them. I could see Paul's throat had been cut, but he was not only alive, but conscious. I pushed my face close to his and said, 'If you grass Michael, I'll come up the fucking hospital and finish this job off.' Paul didn't speak. I jumped back out of the ambulance.

  The house looked like the set of a horror film. In the dining room, blood had spattered the walls and even the ceiling. Carol sat in a chair sobbing. I could see no sign of Michael. The police left after saying they wanted to talk to him.

  Carol told me they'd all been sitting down to dinner when Paul had gone berserk again. Both she and Michael had been terrified. Paul had moved to grab Michael, who'd lashed out with a mug which had broken. Paul's throat ended up cut. There'd been so much blood that Michael was convinced he'd killed him. After phoning me, he'd run off to hide down a nearby canal towpath.

  I told Carol not to speak to the police under any circumstances and not to answer the door. She should only pick up the phone if it rang, went off, then rang again. I promised her everything would be all right. Then I went looking for Michael.

  I found him hiding in bushes on the towpath. His face shone with relief when I told him Paul had still been alive when they'd wheeled him out. We went back to the house so he could get rid of his bloodstained clothes and clear away any other incriminating evidence.

  When two detectives called later that evening, I told them the owners wouldn't be back until the next day. I asked them to leave a number. I assured them Michael and Carol would call and, if necessary, attend a police station.

  At the hospital, Paul denied he'd been the victim of an assault. He refused to answer police questions. A nurse told me later that, though critically injured, he'd started swearing at the detectives and threatening them. They'd had to restrain him in his bed. The following day, I sent Michael to the police station with a solicitor. He was arrested on suspicion of attempted murder, but refused to answer any questions. The police later released him without charge. After a few weeks, Paul recovered enough to leave hospital. He moved into a friend's house in Codsall.

  Paul's trial for GBH and rape took place at the Old Bailey On the first morning, I arranged to meet him early on the steps outside. I hadn't told him I was bringing Michael along. I wanted to get them to shake hands and put the past behind them, because I was worried that, if they didn't, Paul would turn up one day at Michael's - as he'd already threatened - and kill him. To my relief (and, I think, Michael's), Paul stretched out his hand and agreed not to mention the incident again.

  Paul's trial lasted three days. Our mutual friend Ray lent him his best suit. Paul pleaded guilty to GBH, but strenuously denied rape. On the third day, a female friend of the alleged rape victim went into the dock and testified that her friend had been having an affair with Paul and she had told her that he hadn't raped her.

  Paul was immediately acquitted of rape, but sentenced to 18 months' imprisonment for GBH. Ray was sitting with me in court as the screws led Paul away to begin his sentence. I thought Ray looked more devastated than Paul. I asked him why. He said, 'Because I know I'll never see that suit again.'

  For me, the outcome didn't mean much, because I'd lost Paul the day they charged him with rape. I didn't recognise the broken and confused man making his way down those wooden steps to the cells.

  Paul came out of prison in early 1994 and moved back to his tower-block flat in 'Crack City'. Again, he began drinking suicidally. I visited him there and tried to divert him from his kamikaze dive. He'd decorated the walls of his lounge with photos of real-life horror - a man with an axe in his head, blood-soaked murder victims, gruesome autopsies and war scenes such as HMS Antelope exploding in the Falklands.

  He put on a video. I thought at first it was a normal boxing video. Then I realised all the boxers had Down's syndrome. In fact, he started earning money by selling so-called 'video nasties'. Some of his customers were teenagers. Some months later, this sideline brought him to the attention of the News of the World, which on 8 May 1994 described him as 'the Pied Piper of horror' for selling 'death videos to our kids':

  His biggest seller is a video called Faces of Death. It depicts sequences from real tragedies, including a parachutist landing in an alligator park and being eaten alive by reptiles. In another scene, a live monkey's head is smashed open with a hammer. Asian diners are then seen eating the whimpering creature's brains. There are also close-ups of the mangled victims of fatal car crashes, and surgeons carrying out autopsies. Yet another clip shows a woman falling to her death under a lorry.

  The 35-year-old monster who touts his grisly wares around the east London borough of Newham also has a video called Being Different. It shows sad, seriously disfigured people with growths on their heads and stunted limbs.

  Paul couldn't understand the fuss. He said the same 'kids' to whom he was selling the videos carried guns and sold crack cocaine. He hardly thought he could be accused of corrupting them. 'Anyway,' he said, 'it's only real life, isn't it?'

  Paul's grasp on reality continued to deteriorate. I found him harder and harder to deal with. When he wasn't drinking, you could have a semi-coherent conversation with him. But boozed-up, he became more of a nightmare than he'd ever been.

  In an attempt to help him, I got him a job in early 1996 working with me for an Irish haulage company in London's King's Cross. After leaving Raquels following the death of Leah Betts and the murder of my three one-time 'business associates', I'd gone back to driving tipper lorries. Another new start. I got Paul a job labouring in the yard. Within hours of his arrival, he was chasing the foreman with a lump of angle-iron in his hand. I calmed things down and managed to convince everyone there'd been a 'misunderstanding'.

  Next morning, I picked Paul up at six. By seven, he'd drunk half a bottle of whisky, neat. This led to further 'misunderstandings' at work. By ten, we'd both been sacked. As I'd done absolutely nothing wrong, I vented my anger at Paul as I drove him home in my car. At first, he shouted back, but then he stopped shouting and asked me to pull over. He went quiet. I thought he might have been feeling sick and wanted to puke. I found a space at the side of the road and parked.

  For a few seconds,
Paul just sat there without moving. Then he started crying, really crying, sobbing desperately. I'm not good at dealing with tears, especially men's tears. Paul had cried in Belmarsh Prison - the first time I'd seen him do so since childhood - but this was different. And my reaction was different, because I didn't know what was wrong. I suppose I felt embarrassed. I said, 'Come on, Paul. What's up?'

  In a voice almost cracking with desperation, he said, 'Help me. Please help me.'

  Awkwardly, I put my arm round his shoulder. I said, 'Fuck the job. I'll get another. I'll find something for you too. Don't worry.'

  'I'm not on about that,' Paul said, 'I'm on about me. You don't know what it's like. You just don't know what it's like. Help me. Please help me.'

  I told him I'd do anything for him, but what was it he wanted me to do? He didn't say anything. He wept a little bit more, then stopped as suddenly as he'd started. He wiped the tears from his face and sat quietly for a few seconds, staring out the windscreen. I could see he was embarrassed. He said he wanted to get the tube back to south London. He opened the door and got out. He didn't say goodbye. I watched him cross the road. For a few seconds, he bobbed in and out of view, mingling with shoppers, then he disappeared.

  I began to see him very irregularly. Sometimes, I'd get a call from the police to say he'd been arrested again - and I'd have to head off to a magistrates' court. When he wasn't appearing in court, he was appearing in newspapers. On 24 March 1996, he featured once more in the News of the World, though not under his real name. The headline was 'Fascists target Euro '96':

  A Nazi thug is planning to bring violence to the European football championships in England this summer. He told an undercover reporter, 'There's going to be some grief.' The man and his neo-Nazi group Combat 18 plan to team up with fascists from across Europe to attack black Holland fans.