My James: The Heartrending Story of James Bulger by His Father

by Ralph Bulger

  Just as I had with James, I fell in love instantly. When I held Michael close to me, I felt overwhelmed with love. It took me back to when I had held James for the first time and I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I didn’t want my sadness for James to hijack the fantastic moment when this baby came into my life, but I couldn’t make the grief disappear. It was like my happiness and sadness were all rolled into one huge emotion and it was very confusing. The birth of any child is a very moving moment, but it wasn’t easy to step back from our feelings of loss over James. I think it almost made his death more noticeable.

  Michael and James are two traditional names that have been used throughout the Bulger family history, but James was always chosen for the first-born son of each new generation. And so we opted for Michael for our new baby, with his second name chosen in memory of his elder brother.

  ‘Hello, Michael James,’ I whispered to him as I squashed my face into his warm skin. ‘Your daddy is always going to protect you from danger, son. No one is ever going to hurt you, and when you are older, I’m gonna tell you all about your big brother and sister that you never got to meet. You would have loved them both and they will always be part of our family.’

  I turned to Denise and said, ‘Our son is beautiful. He’s amazing.’

  ‘He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?’ she whispered, smiling back at me.

  His hair seemed darker than James’s, but he was so cute with the same blue eyes. He was as light as a feather and I wanted him to feel all my love and care as I held him to me before passing him back to his mum. Denise and I were overjoyed with Michael’s arrival, but I felt enormous pressure too. All parents experience some nerves with a new baby, but this was different. I was petrified of anything happening to my son; I felt a real and acute fear lodged in the pit of my stomach. I never wanted to let this child be hurt or harmed in any way.

  When James had come home with us I obviously wanted to nurture and take care of him, but never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined what dangers lay ahead for him. No one would have thought that such a murder was possible, but now I knew it was, and my view of the world had changed for ever. Would I ever allow Michael to go and play with his friends and have a normal childhood after what had happened to James? The whole thought of it filled me with horror. I wanted to keep this boy under lock and key, but what sort of life would he have then?

  Denise and I had been overprotective of James after the loss of Kirsty, but this was a whole new ball game, and I wasn’t sure how I was going to adapt. I even questioned if I was fit to be a parent, continually blaming myself for James’s murder. What if I couldn’t protect my new son? What if someone tried to hurt him too?

  ‘Please, God,’ I prayed. ‘Don’t let any harm come to this baby. Don’t let us suffer any more. We have already been through too much and I couldn’t bear the pain of losing another baby.’

  It was a silent prayer but, with every fibre in my body, I hoped that someone out there would hear me.

  When we brought Michael home, the conflicting emotions kept gnawing away at me. He was a sheer delight and, as with James, every day spent with him was a joy. He was a quiet baby, unlike his brother, and he was very easy to care for. I felt a great deal of comfort when I held him, knowing that he was safe and in my arms. It was a relief to have moved from our old flat, as the memories of having James there would have been almost too tragic to deal with. In our new place, Michael had his own room, which meant there were no comparisons to be made with where James had once slept as a baby.

  Michael was born just a few days before Christmas, and we couldn’t have been blessed with a more perfect gift. Even so, it was a difficult Christmas that year, as it would come to be every year. But the first one without James left the biggest void imaginable. I’m glad Michael was too young to know anything about that Christmas, because I don’t think I would have been able to put on a brave face for him and pretend to enjoy such a traditionally happy time of year. The reality was, it was sheer hell. Gone was the boisterous Christmas morning noise from James I had loved so much the previous year. There was no tearing of wrapping paper or squealing with delight at his new toys. No son to fling himself in my arms and shout, ‘Cor, thanks, Ralph! Look at my new toys!’

  James had adored Christmas. It was a time of year that could have been made especially for him, and he had just reached the age where he could really appreciate everything about it. He had loved the presents, the food, the family gatherings and, of course, being spoiled to high heaven by everyone who saw him. I remembered the last Christmas, when he was so happy sitting around playing games and watching his new videos on the television. It was impossible trying to get him to bed in the evening because he was so overexcited, but he made Christmas such a special and happy occasion. Now there was nothing left and nothing to celebrate.

  I knew I had a lot still to be thankful for. I had my wife and our new son, but that Christmas morning my grief seemed to grow out of proportion. Maybe it was because everyone expects you to be happy and full of ho-ho-ho, but I couldn’t bring myself to lie and make out that I was feeling OK. I spent the day at home with Denise and Michael, and though a Christmas dinner was served up for me, I hardly touched it. The festivities meant absolutely nothing to me, and so I reached for the bottle and got drunk, hoping that when I woke up it would all be over and I could get back on with normal life. The rest of the day was just a blur. Relatives came and went — I would have another drink with them and I suppose I must have had some conversations with them and wished them Merry Christmas, but I have very little recollection of the day itself. For the best part I sat and stared into space, living my life in my head and thinking of happier times with James.

  The one thing I can remember is looking out the window once it had gone dark. It was very black and cold outside with a tiny spattering of stars. There was one particular star that was brighter than all the rest and it seemed to be winking at me. I smiled and allowed myself to believe it was James looking down on me to see if I was OK. It reminded me of his favourite nursery rhyme too — ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’.

  ‘Merry Christmas, my beautiful James,’ I said. ‘I miss you more than you will ever know.’

  In my head, I imagined him repling, ‘Merry Christmas, Ralph. I love you.’

  I carried on drinking for the rest of the evening until I passed out where I was sitting, waking up on the sofa in the morning. Boxing Day was pretty much the same — more drinking and more misery. It wouldn’t be until a few days later that I shook myself out of the self pity I had shrouded myself in during the Christmas period. It wasn’t fair on Denise, who was shouldering all the responsibility for our new son, and I began to clear my head once again.

  Despite having a new baby to keep us both busy, there was still tension at home. Denise and I had been through so much over the past year, we were both exhausted and wrung out. I felt as if I could no longer reach her. I couldn’t talk to her about James because I had tried to protect her from knowing the worst of what had happened to him and I still wanted to do so. I was too scared to tell her how I really felt inside, because I knew it would hurt her. With hindsight, I think this is probably a common reaction for parents in our situation, and because Denise and I had shared this same tragedy, she was the wrong person for me to turn to, to pour my heart out. It was like there was this big white elephant sitting in the room, and instead of confronting it, I took huge strides to walk around it.

  The chasm that had opened up between us seemed to be getting deeper and wider with every day that passed. We were both unhappy, despite the arrival of baby Michael. Our combined love for this little miracle was never in question, but I began to wonder if Denise and I would make it through together.

  In times of extreme tragedy, particularly when a couple loses a child under any circumstances, it either binds you closer together or it savages you apart. Sadly, it appeared we were beginning to unravel at the seams, and we started to row and fall out. I ha
ve previously said that I blamed Denise for James’s loss, but that was not why our marriage was in trouble. I no longer felt she was to blame and deeply regretted my initial feelings towards her, which were cruel and unfair. Our rows were meaningless and petty, and we weren’t even arguing all the time as I was still really quiet. It was more a case of what we didn’t say to each other. I can’t have been easy to live with, with my silence and my drinking, but we certainly didn’t set out to hurt one another.

  In the New Year of 1994 I set myself some fresh targets: to quit the drinking and to get myself fit so I could look after my family properly. There was plenty for me to do around the house and I kept myself busy with DIY jobs and helping Denise to look after Michael. He was a cracking baby and he had this funny little gurgle as if he was trying to giggle. That always put a smile on my face.

  The signatures on our petition against the tariff were growing all the time and so we continued to monitor those as well as get on with our ordinary day-to-day lives. We got up, fed, bathed and clothed Michael, did some jobs, went shopping, ate our dinner and eventually went to sleep at night. It was busy with a newborn but pretty humdrum. Routine helped me to stay focused, but I hadn’t quit the drink completely. It came in bouts and then I would pick myself up and start all over again.

  I found it hard to confide in people, but I found a true friend in Father Michael, who had conducted James’s funeral. I knew him as Mick the priest, and he wasn’t your average holy man. He was different to a lot of other priests I had ever met, more open and honest, and I felt that I could be myself with him. To put it bluntly, he knew I was really fucked up over James’s murder, and however much I tried to act normal, I wasn’t. He might have been a priest but he did things his way, and he knew that the best way to break the ice with me was to sit in the pub and talk, allowing me to get some of my sorrow and anger off my chest. He loved the people of Kirkby and he understood that drinking was the way many of them dealt with tragedies, just as I was doing. It was a little bit like have a counselling session, but over a bevvy. I wouldn’t say we had arguments about things, but I would swear at him and vent my fury, and he would swear back at me. There were times we really laughed together too, although they were rare moments.

  ‘If God exists, then why did he let this happen to my son?’ I would rant at him. ‘Why didn’t he save James from those boys?’

  Mick would respond, ‘Because we know God works in mysterious ways’

  That would set me off again, but Mick never got angry with me. Instead he just allowed me to let everything out of my system. Not once did he try to drum the Catholic religion down my throat and I felt safe sharing my feelings with him. He was an amazing confidant, and if it wasn’t for Mick I would have stayed locked away by myself for far longer than I did. He encouraged me to get out, even if it was to the pub. I needed answers still, and because Mick was a man of the church I believed he would be able to give them to me. I never got them and I never will, but even today, I would do anything for Father Mick. He was there for me at a terrible time and just listened and tried to help in the best way he could, and when he eventually got moved away to another parish by the church, I was devastated.

  Father Mick constantly explained that I was not to blame for James’s death, but it wasn’t easy to accept that there was nothing I could have done. I don’t think the guilt will ever leave me and so I will have to try and find some way of dealing with that in the future.

  By February 1994, Denise and I were facing the first anniversary of James’s death and it was truly awful. I didn’t want to acknowledge it, but I knew I couldn’t let the day pass without honouring my son’s memory. Denise and I decided we would keep things simple by visiting his grave and laying some flowers for him, but it was a huge task. Neither of us could put into words how we were feeling and so we spent a quiet day, each isolated in our private thoughts and memories of James. I could scarcely believe a whole year had gone by without him, but it was to be the first of many sad and difficult anniversaries we would go through.

  It also brought the case back into the media spotlight, and that was always hard for us to cope with. The pain was as fresh as it was when I was first told James was dead, and I couldn’t wait for the day to end.

  It was around the time of the first anniversary of James’s murder that I met a woman called Eileen, who would become a huge part of my life. She lived locally in Kirkby and we were introduced by a mutual friend. Like me, she was fairly quiet, and even though she was younger than me at eighteen, she came across as mature and sensible for her age. We would bump into each other on nights out, and would end up chatting to each other. I found her easy to talk to, and chatting with her would, at least briefly, take my mind away from the horrors of the last eighteen months. She wasn’t carrying any of the baggage that I was and being in her company reminded me of what life had been like before I lost James.

  As we grew closer, I found her to be patient and kind. She didn’t pry too much about James and that was a welcome relief. When I did open up to her about him, I didn’t feel guilty in the way I would with Denise, where I was always tiptoeing around the issue because I hated to see her upset.

  Eventually, the friendship spilled over into romance and I began seeing Eileen regularly. I’m not proud of this but my marriage had been ripped apart by what we had gone through and Eileen was a huge support to me when I really needed someone to turn to.

  By June of that year we had managed to collect nearly 280,000 signatures supporting our petition to raise the tariff on Thompson and Venables’ sentence. Six thousand of those we had collected ourselves, and the rest were made up of the coupons that had been cut out from the newspaper, as well as over a thousand supporting letters. We thought that was a great show of solidarity and it gave us renewed strength to carry on for James. Together, Denise and I travelled to Downing Street to hand the signatures to the Home Secretary of the day, Michael Howard, and our journey was covered by both print and television journalists.

  We didn’t know what to expect from the petition but at least this was a very public statement of protest, not just from James’s family, but from ordinary people too. It didn’t take long for Mr Howard to respond. The next month he publicly announced that he was raising the tariff again so that James’s killers would be kept in custody for a minimum of fifteen years, by which time they would be twenty-five years old.

  I would have liked them to serve life imprisonment, but at least this increase was better than an eight-year tariff. From the outset, Denise and I made our views very clear. We never wanted either of them to be released, but given that this outcome was unlikely, we wanted to ensure they would never be freed while there was even a slight possibility that either of them posed a risk to other children. As I believed they would always pose a risk, that remained my argument throughout for keeping them locked up for ever.

  Michael Howard’s new tariff had restored a little bit of our faith in the legal system, but even the news from Downing Street didn’t relieve our suffering. We still had to live with the knowledge that James had died in such a terrible way and we would face that for the rest of our lives. The strain was with us constantly.

  Then Denise found out about Eileen and we had some very difficult conversations about our future. As much as I cared for Eileen, I also had so much history with Denise and I felt terrible that I had failed her as well as failing James. She wanted to try to save the marriage and thought a trip away would give us the chance to work on our problems, as well as giving us some distance from the events of the last year.

  I have some relatives who live in Australia, and so Denise organized for us to fly out to Adelaide to stay with my Uncle Jim and Aunt Moira. The problem was, she hadn’t told me about the trip beforehand. She had packed my bags, organized the passports and made plans for family to look after baby Michael. She finally broke the news to me when she told me we were leaving for the airport that day and that a car would be round to collect us. I was stunned w
hen she told me and although I was happy to try and make things work between us, I was upset at leaving Michael behind because I had all these paranoid issues about his safety. It wasn’t a good start to the trip and put further strain upon us.

  My state of mind wasn’t great by this stage, but I had no idea what was wrong with me. I was still having vivid nightmares about James’s torture and murder, eighteen months after his death. In particular the dream about James’s gravestone being soaked in blood continued to haunt my sleep on a regular basis. I would wake up bathed in cold sweat during the night, terrified out of my life, my heart beating so fast I thought I was going to die, gasping for breath. It would take quite a while for my body to settle down and to realize that it had been a nightmare. Often it would wake Denise from her sleep, which was exhausting for her.

  It was with all this baggage that I agreed to get on a plane and fly to the other side of the world, even though most of the time I didn’t want to be around people and only felt safe in the confines of my own home. I had gone from being a young man with a sharp sense of humour to a loner who didn’t laugh and found it hard to connect with others.

  I can clearly remember the long flight to the other side of the world and, bizarrely, being up there in the sky was one of the few occasions when I found a little peace. It was as if I was suspended from reality, soaring through the clouds and the dark night. In a silly way, I also felt that I was closer to James up there. I wished I could put my hand outside and try to touch him. While I was flying, it seemed to take some of the weight of my sadness away from me.