by June Thomson
Even the most hardened of criminals do not suffer child killers.
But perhaps the most telling example of who and what Ash was came when he contacted the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency and requested form Number V33, which is an application for a refund of the unexpired portion of a car’s road tax. Ash informed the DVLA that his Mercedes had been off the road … since 3 May 2008.
He got a refund of £50.
He bought chocolate with the money.
Chapter 30
Reaching for the Light
‘Human beings find inner resources of strength to survive the most dreadful loss. The love that surrounds these mothers is a living thing – it gives them the will to go on.’
Ian Stephen
June: We couldn’t let them defeat us, could we? These vile creatures. I take comfort from striking a blow for abused women everywhere.
‘You’ve made legal history,’ Cameron Fyfe said.
The voice of Scotland’s top civil litigator was quiet and professional, but what he truly wanted to do was punch the air. He is, however, too reserved a man to indulge in theatrics. Thanks to him, I now had the right to sue Rab over the murders of my children and the abuse I had endured for 27 years. A pinprick of light in the darkness! Who would have believed it?
Until February 2010, any woman in Scotland suffering at the hands of an abusive husband or partner had two choices. She could flee or she could divorce – the same rights as a woman who had not been abused. Now she had a third choice. She could sue on the basis of the abuse alone.
A Sheriff had granted me a Warrant of Arrestment, the wherewithal to pursue Rab for compensation. Such a concept had never before been tested in law. I had gone to Cameron Fyfe because he had a reputation for breaking new legal ground on behalf of victims of all kinds. He had argued to the court that a battered woman had the right to be recompensed for what she had suffered. The money, he said, would allow her to rebuild her life – and financially censure the abuser.
It is a tragic fact in the lives of victims like us that we too often end up living a hand-to-mouth existence in women’s shelters, without the financial capability to move on.
In truth, I had no desire to sue Rab for blood money.
I did, however, want the house where we had lived, the house where he had killed my children. I wanted to own it and raze it to the ground. Under the existing matrimonial rights laws I owned only half of the marital home at Muiredge. Rab’s ‘half’ of the house was his only major asset. If I could sue him and win, he would only have the proceeds from his share of the house with which to settle. The Sheriff had agreed with Cameron that I could pursue compensation against Rab for my years of abuse and, in another legal first, for the murder of my children.
Cameron told me, ‘No matter what you decide to do, June, you’ve set a precedent for abused women everywhere. It hammers home the message that zero tolerance means just that, by hitting them where it hurts, in the pocket. This will send a message to abusive husbands that they may not only end up in the divorce court; they may end up penniless.’
It was a massive victory for me. I had felt cheated by the criminal justice system over Rab’s sentence, but at least I had given abused women another weapon with which to fight back – in the civil courts. In the end, I got my way and Fife Council offered to demolish Muiredge.
It was a blessed relief because not only had I come to regard the house as a place of evil – I had been inexorably drawn back there as I struggled with my grief. It was as if I was tethered to it by an invisible cord.
A kindly stranger with a special gift would cut the cord and set me free.
Giselle: We’ve both made a difference. No other mother will have to suffer as I did.
Paul Martin had read the report. His words were tight with anger. ‘Strathclyde Police should be utterly ashamed of the way they treated a distraught mother, frantically begging them for help!’
My Member of the Scottish Parliament would not be placated. ‘I can’t make up my mind if this was incompetence or a total lack of understanding of this type of crime.’
He was not going to let this rest. Mr Martin had no qualms about challenging the system that had failed me.
‘The Scottish Government must look at this whole issue,’ he went on.
The report in my hand, the contents of which had so incensed the MSP, outlined the findings of an inquiry by Central Scotland Police into how Strathclyde Police had responded to me on the day my babies were murdered. The findings presented a catalogue of failures on every level. It told me nothing I did not know already. Instead of searching for my boys, Strathclyde Police had logged the ‘case’ as ‘non-urgent’ and the inexperienced civilian worker had filed the report in the wrong place. Police failed to check Ash’s flat despite it being only yards from the station. When they did know the awful truth they had felt too ‘uncomfortable’ to tell me. The civilian officer became so distraught and ‘embarrassed’ that she had asked to go home. Not exactly what one would expect from a frontline professional.
In their report, Detective Superintendent David Wilson and Detective Inspector Gordon Dawson concluded, ‘Giselle Ross was not treated with empathy. Her report appears to have been minimised. Her treatment – after the bodies of her children were found – lacked any respect and fell well below the standard expected by a victim of any crime, let alone the murder of her only children.’
The memory of how I was treated still wounds me.
In a newspaper report, George Hamilton, Strathclyde Police Assistant Chief Constable, was quoted as saying, ‘We’re sorry. This will be of little comfort to Giselle Ross but, God forbid, if anyone else finds themselves in this scenario, they will be treated differently. Strathclyde Police made mistakes. Giselle should not have been treated the way she was and we will learn from those mistakes. Sadly, even if we had handled things differently, the outcome would not have changed. The tragedy is that her boys were brutally and horribly murdered before Giselle came to the police office. But the trauma she suffered was exacerbated by the less than acceptable treatment she received. It will not be allowed to happen again.’
Mr Hamilton would deliver the same apology to me in person. He was right. His words were of little comfort but at least I found solace in the knowledge that no other worried mother would ever be treated as I was. I had at least made that difference.
June: Sometimes we find the light comes from unexpected sources.
I’d heard that Frank Pilkington had helped so many people who were struggling with emotional pain. Could he help me? A mutual friend approached the renowned psychic on my behalf. When he heard of my plight, he came immediately. We were now standing in the living room of Muiredge, surrounded by the debris of my previous life. Long-forgotten toys and DVDs that we had once watched as a family lay beneath thick layers of dust.
Once the court case was over, Muiredge was no longer a crime scene and, in spite of myself, I’d been inexorably drawn back there. I couldn’t help myself.
I would sit in the ruined shell of the house. I would tend to the overgrown flowers in the garden, all the time deluding myself that at any moment the children might return. The familiarity of the surroundings comforted me. I touched the boles of the trees, below which Ryan’s imaginary witch’s cat had once played. I looked up at the canopy where the cheeky monkeys lived. I would sit in Michelle’s room. I could see the glitter dust from the sparkly things she had once loved. The spirit of my children still inhabited this place. I reasoned that I could find them here.
‘Why did Michelle have a pain in her leg?’ Frank asked me suddenly.
I was taken aback. I had just received the pathologist’s report. It indicated that Michelle’s thigh was injured, probably in the struggle with Rab. No one could know that.
‘It was her left leg,’ Frank went on.
I nodded.
He moved quickly, disappearing from the living room. I followed and found him in Michelle’s bedroom.
He was looking at where Michelle’s bed had once been.
‘Here?’ he said.
I nodded again.
I had looked so many times at the same spot. It was where my Michelle had died.
‘What keeps bringing you back here, June?’ he asked me.
‘What?’ I said.
‘You sit in the garden, don’t you? Waiting for them?’
I nodded for a third time.
‘Your children aren’t here,’ Frank said. ‘They’re with you wherever you are. Don’t come back here! There’s nothing for you here.’
Giselle had to meet this man.
Giselle: We’ve both learned to take comfort from where we can.
‘I can’t get it out of my head that the last thing they saw was him,’ I told Frank.
‘It wasn’t,’ he replied.
‘Jay-Jay was so small,’ I told him. ‘He probably didn’t understand what was happening, but he saw.’
‘That wasn’t the last thing he saw,’ Frank repeated.
‘But my Paul,’ I said. ‘He was so tortured-looking. He saw Jay-Jay die and the last thing he saw in life was his own death.’
‘I promise you, it wasn’t,’ Frank said.
‘It’s all they will remember.’
‘It won’t be.’
Frank reached across the coffee table that sat between us and placed his hands over mine.
‘They saw your mum,’ he said.
‘Are you certain?’ I asked.
‘Yes! She was there, waiting for them. They are together now, playing together in a special garden, and your mother watches over them.’
I rose from the chair. Frank knew not to expect me to speak. I walked to the door. He stepped in front of me and he opened it.
As I passed him he said, ‘And another thing … it’s time to stop hating God.’
Chapter 31
The Kindness of Strangers
‘No one who has not endured such a loss can understand what the mothers have gone through. By telling their stories they will touch many lives. And that is a comfort.’
Ian Stephen
June: We can always find our children, if we look for them. I saw Ryan in another boy’s eyes; I saw Michelle in the love of others.
Nathan didn’t see me. He was too intent on patrolling the aisle of the supermarket, no doubt making a mental inventory of the sweets he would try in vain to persuade his mother to buy.
‘Not a chance,’ I said to the back of his head.
He turned. An instant smile. I felt a sense of well-being. I had not realised the comfort I would find in the company of children. The realisation had crept up on me. You might think that a mother who has lost her own babies would be pained by the proximity of other children. The opposite was true. I grew to love the unaffected nature of the young. They are so resilient, unburdened by the weight of adult misgivings. Nathan’s smile was warm, gentle and free from the reticence that constrains grown-ups.
‘Mrs Thomson!’ he said.
He was happy to see me.
If Nathan had been an adult there would have been hesitation, a sense of not knowing quite what to say to this mother of two murdered children. I was just as happy to see Nathan. His life was inextricably linked to Ryan’s. They had been special friends since nursery. They started school together, sat side-by-side in the same classroom. They had been inseparable.
‘You’re getting so big,’ I told him.
I hadn’t see him for a while and, looking at him now, I saw the boy my son might have become – bright-faced, tall and strong. Logic suggests that in looking at Nathan I should have experienced an even greater sense of loss. I didn’t. I was relieved to see him blossoming. I had been worried about Nathan. In the beginning he had been deeply affected by the loss of his best friend, but here he was – a survivor. There was a lesson in this for me. I realised that the closeness Ryan and Nathan shared ensured that this child would always carry within him a small part of my son. I found that knowledge unbelievably comforting. I was about to ask where his mum was when Dot appeared, pushing a trolley.
‘Hi, June, haven’t seen you for a while. How have you been?’ Dot said.
‘Fine,’ I replied. ‘I can’t believe how Nathan’s grown.’
‘He’s getting big, isn’t he?’
‘Where are you off to now?’ I asked Nathan.
‘The swimming pool,’ the boy said.
Nathan and Ryan were seldom away from the swimming pool. Apart from football, swimming was their favourite pastime. Nathan looked up at his mum, his eyes asking a silent question.
‘Go and pick something,’ she said ruefully, indicating the seemingly endless rows of sweets.
‘See you, Mrs Thomson,’ he said, dashing off.
‘See you, Nathan,’ I said.
I turned back to his mum. She was one of the few adults able to speak to me without a tear in their voice. I was grateful for that.
‘Scooby passed away,’ she said.
Scooby had been Ryan’s pet rabbit. After my son died, I gave the animal to Nathan.
‘Was Nathan terribly upset?’ I asked.
‘That’s the strange thing,’ his mum said. ‘He was happy!’
‘Happy?’
‘Yeah. I went out to the hutch to feed Scooby and he was gone. We thought Nathan would be distraught, but when we told him he said, “That’s okay! Now Ryan will be able to play with him in Heaven.”’
Out of the mouths of babes …
Giselle: I’m glad we are not alone, just you and me. In the beginning I didn’t want to go on. Now I know I must. The letter proved it.
It lay on the kitchen table.
It was unsigned. I touched it with a sense of wonder. How kind, how very kind, I thought. The letter informed me that the sender had dedicated two stars in memory of my babies.
It read, ‘I wanted to do something to comfort you. I can’t imagine how you must be feeling but I hope this will let you know that other people are thinking of you.’
I didn’t recognise the writing. It was not from anyone I knew. I checked the package again. I couldn’t make out the postmark. I knew only that it was not local. A stranger had offered me proof of the world’s kindness.
In my mind I heard the voices of the boys. They were singing ‘Twinkle, twinkle, little star’ to their ‘Granny in Heaven’. When Ma died, I had told the boys that Granny was a star in the night sky.
When Paul sang the rhyme little Jay-Jay would point to the sky and say, ‘Jay-Jay go up-a-sky!’
I’d tell him he was too little to go ‘up-a-sky’, but he was insistent.
‘No! Jay-Jay go up-a-sky with Granny!’
The memory of it made me shiver.
I looked at the package from the woman – I presume it was a woman who had sent it. It contained two scrolls, certificates decorated with ornate copperplate text, recording that two stars had been named after Paul and Jay-Jay. They were in the constellation of Canis Major in the northern hemisphere. They were described as ‘very large, bright stars’ sitting close to Sirius, the brightest star in the night sky. I looked towards the window. Morning light shone on me. I would have to wait until darkness before I could see them for myself.
I rose from the kitchen table and retrieved my ‘treasure chest’ from the living room. I had created a box of memories containing things special to my sons: toys, photos and clothing, including Paul’s school uniform and Jay-Jay’s Bob the Builder hat. It was something to hold, something to keep my boys alive – my route though the long days and nights without them. I took it to the kitchen, rested it on the table and carefully placed my newest treasure inside. I was overwhelmed by the goodness of the woman who had sent it to me. I did not know her. I probably never would, but my babies had reached out to her, touching something good and true deep within her.
If she only knew the light she had shone into my heart.
June: We know that our children will never be forgotten. They don’t just live in our hearts and me
mories. They live on in others.
White violas merged into the sunny faces of yellow pansies, a profusion of flowers surrounding a circular bird bath, decorated with stone sparrows that would forever drink from an endless flow of clear water. A love-heart-shaped rock bearing Michelle’s name lay beneath this cascade of blooms. The staff of Rosslyn School and the children who had known Michelle encircled me, watching me expectantly, waiting for my approval.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, indicating the memorial to my daughter.
‘Everyone helped,’ said Marion Robertson, Michelle’s former teacher. ‘We wanted it to be special.’
It was special. I tried to speak but I couldn’t. If they had only known what they had done for me with this patch of flowers. They had made me feel. I had believed I would never feel anything again, that I would be forever dead inside. The world had come to an end, hadn’t it?
I looked down and I saw the possibility of healing in those colourful, fragile flowers.
I looked up into the faces of the children who had all loved Michelle, these blessed youngsters who shared the same innocence as my beautiful daughter.
‘Would Michelle like it?’ one of them asked.
‘More than you’ll ever know,’ I told her.
Giselle: You’re right. We have helped each other understand, survive, go forward. And we are not alone. I knew it when I saw him standing on my hill.
It was mid-morning.
I was late today. I was walking quickly along a lane between the headstones when I saw him. The man was standing at my special place on the hill, looking down on the graves of my sons. He held a posy of flowers in his right hand. He was somehow familiar to me but I couldn’t place where I had seen him before. It was as if he sensed my approach and turned towards me.
Alastair Douglas.
It was the humanist minister who had conducted the funeral service for Paul and Jay-Jay.
‘Hello, Giselle,’ he said.
‘Alastair?’ I replied.
He had heard my unspoken question. He bent over and placed the posy on the grave. When he straightened up he said, ‘I’ve been a couple times to … you know?’
