One step at a time

Joan, who is 45, is married with two sons. In 1987 her younger son Barry, aged sixteen, was sent to prison for killing an old woman. This is Joan’s story.

On the Thursday our neighbour, an old lady, was murdered. The police questioned people in the neighbourhood, and the following Wednesday it was Barry’s turn. He’d known her quite well and used to visit her often. He’d clear the snow for her in winter; take her a card and chocolates at Christmas. Barry was a kind boy; he’d never been in any sort of trouble.

He and my husband went to the police station at about seven in the evening. At 11.30 pm a policeman came round to the house to tell me I was needed at the station. They took me into an office – my husband was there, and he told me. The police said they’d found a fingerprint in some blood that proved it was Barry. It seemed as if the bottom had immediately dropped out of my world.

The policeman said we must listen to what lie was telling us and I told him I couldn’t. I said that I’d finished with Barry – that if he could do that to an old lady he wasn’t my son any more. They said Barry needed our help more than ever and that we must support him. People say the police are hard, but they were very kind to us.

We were at the police station until four in the morning. We only saw Barry for a few minutes that night and then not until the next evening when he’d finished making his statement. When we went in, he was sitting with his head down. He glanced up and I honestly expected him to look different. His eyes were so sad. I knelt down at his side and put my arms around him. My husband cried non – stop. I didn’t cry. I was numb and stayed like that for days.

Barry wouldn’t hurt a spider. He’s a gentle, caring person, kind – hearted and sensitive. That was his trouble. He was very depressed – he was about to leave school and was worried about getting a job. Later we learnt that lots of other things were worrying Barry: his feelings about my divorce from his father, the fact that his father had stopped visiting when Barry was four, and jealousy of his older brother. He was at a painful age. And then he’d sniff glue or lighter fuel, and it just opened the gates, letting him release all that anger and fear.

Jim, his brother, had caught him glue-sniffing a few weeks before it happened and had told him off. He’d told Barry that if he found him doing it again he would tell me and my husband. “If only he’d told us,” I’d say to myself.

At first we had no idea why he had done it. It was two and a half years before he told us the truth. At the beginning he said he’d been taking the dog for a walk at the time. Then they found the fingerprint. The story he told the police was that he’d taken two birds to show the old lady. She’d opened the door to let him in, the cage had caught on the door, sent it swinging back and she’d knocked her head – an accident at first. Then, because she was in pain, Barry hit her to stop her feeling anything – as you do to an injured animal. He has said since that it seemed he wasn’t actually doing it but was standing back watching someone else kill her.

For months afterwards I thought a miracle would happen, that the police would say: “we’ve made a mistake and it wasn’t Barry.’ I really believed at the time that someone else had done it. I knew Barry must have been there because of the fingerprint, but I thought that someone else had committed the crime. His solicitor thought that there might have been someone else. I thought:

“I hope to god there isn’t.” I wouldn’t like anyone else to go through what we’ve been through.

Barry was charged with murder on the Thursday, and next day we, decided to sell our house. That was in May. We stayed there till August as we couldn’t move into our new house until September. It was terrible. The old lady’s house was only two doors away, and each time I had to walk past it I pictured what had happened. The bus regularly stopped at the traffic lights opposite our front window and all the heads inside would turn towards our house. I would start shaking. If I’m upset now, I still do. I expect people to throw things through the window.

The trial seemed to go very quickly, but actually it was about half an hour. They read out a list of the old lady’s injuries, which really upset me. You think to yourself, “My son’s done that.” Barry pleaded guilty to murder. I don’t remember what he said during the trial - I don’t know if he said anything. He didn’t move at all. It was November when he got his sentence indeterminate life.

At first I blamed the glue, but that was too easy. Barry doesn’t; he will now tell you: ‘I did it, and I’m responsible. “That, to me, is a really big step forward. But there are still things we’ll never know. I said to him a few months ago: “Do you feel any easier – have you come to terms with what you’ve done?” And he said: “No, not one little bit, Mum.” That was more than three years later. He can’t forgive himself and I don’t think he ever will.

I’m lucky; I’ve got a very good husband and another very good son. It’s brought us closer as a family. Jim doesn’t write to Barry but he visits regularly, which is very important to me.

Sometimes you think you’re going mad. For the first couple of years, as soon as I woke up I thought: Barry’s in prison. There were days when I couldn’t stop crying. Sundays were the worst. It was always just Barry and me before; Sam and Jim used to go out in the evening. Barry used to have a bath and wash his hair and I’d blow-dry it for him. We’d sit and watch TV, or play cards … So on Sundays I became full of anxiety and despair.

I planned to kill Barry at one time. He was so thin and ill that I was going to shoot him. I had no idea how to get a gun. All I knew was that my son was in a terrible state about what he’d done. He wasn’t sleeping much and when he did he had nightmares. If I asked him anything painful he’d turn away from me. I just wanted to end his pain.

But I’ve had to stand back, let go. I’ve realised that I can’t serve Barry’s sentence for him. He has to do it himself. But he also has to know that we will always be here.

We don’t think about his release date because it’s too far away, but his probation officer tells us that we must talk about it from time to time and know that it is going to come one day. I know there will be problems, but we’ll just have to take things one step at a time.’

Дата добавления: 2015-07-20