I Just Wanted to Be Loved: A boy eager to please. The man who destroyed his childhood. The love that overcame it.. Stuart Howarth
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СКАЧАТЬ implication that I was a hardened criminal stuck in a pattern of behaviour that I was forever doomed to repeat. My crime had been a one-off, unpremeditated act, committed in the heat of an intense moment. But would people on the outside think of me as a murderer for the rest of my days? Would I always be wearing that label round my neck? My picture had been plastered all over the front pages of the papers and everyone knew I had been sexually abused as well. Would they be sympathetic or could I expect whispers and snide comments wherever I went?

      As I followed the guard out of the office, I could smell the morning air outside and the freedom I had been denied for the last thirteen months beckoned. There was a loud clanking sound as the huge silver doors to the prison scraped back and a shaft of dazzling sunlight hit my eyes. I took a step forwards, blinking to try and focus, and there she was, my Tracey, sitting directly opposite the entrance in her red Ford Escort. I'd imagined this moment so many times during the long days and nights in my cell, and in my imagination I had always run over, flung my arms around her and given her a big hug and kiss, or even swung her round in the air, telling her how much I loved her. I'd visualized the warm softness of her body, the touch of her lips and the sweet smell of home.

      I took a step outside the metal doors, my feet dragging, and I realized I was shattered. The sounds of city-centre traffic reached my ears; the dirty smell of exhaust fumes and the harshness of the sunlight hit me like a shock wave. What was I doing? The woman I loved was yards away waiting for me and all I could do was force myself to move one leg in front of the other until I reached the car, then open the passenger door and sit down in the seat.

      ‘Are you all right?’ Tracey asked, sounding worried, as she slipped her arms around me.

      I nodded, but I wasn't and she knew it. She knew me so well.

      ‘We have to wait because your mum and Trevor are coming.’

      I nodded again. Mum's partner Trevor was a perfectly decent guy but I was in no mood for their jubilation. I was frightened of everything; all the external stimuli were just too much. Still, there was nothing for it but to wait, and hug Mum, shake Trevor's hand and accept their congratulations before we could drive home. I didn't think there was anything to congratulate me for – a boy had suffered terrible abuse and a man had lost his life – but I tried to force a smile.

      As soon as we were alone, I started to cry and Tracey put her hand on my knee.

      ‘It's all right, Stuart,’ she said. ‘It's over now.’ How wrong she was.

       Chapter Six

       PARTY AT THE PUB

      The day I was released I knew I should have swept Tracey off her feet, rushed her home and made passionate love to her. That's what she deserved – but I just couldn't do it. We drove back to the pub and I went upstairs and sat on the edge of my old bed feeling numb. Mum wanted to crack open the champagne and celebrate but I stayed in my room, unable to deal with talking to anyone. Every noise from downstairs made me nervous that someone was coming to attack me; you always had to watch your back in prison and I was still there in my head. They call this ‘wing trauma’ and it takes a few months to dissipate.

      In my experience, there were five different types in prison: the ones who took drugs, the ones who drank hooch (a home-made brew made from fruit, sugar and brown bread), the bullies, the ones who got bullied and the ones who fought back – and I was definitely one of the fighters. I was determined not to let anyone put one over on me. I felt as though my back was in a corner and I had to keep lashing out to survive. After spending my entire childhood being abused, I believed I had nothing left to lose any more. But being a fighter in jail means you have to be constantly alert to danger and that's something you can't switch off at the snap of your fingers.

      It was disorientating coming out to echoing freedom from a place where every hour of the day was mapped out for you and other people decided what you were going to be doing. I was aware that I was disappointing Tracey – not that she said anything, but she must have been expecting a loving reunion that day, just as I had.

      That afternoon, a journalist and photographer from the Oldham Chronicle came to interview me and take my picture. I think they were expecting us to be in the midst of a lively celebration but I told them that there was nothing to celebrate. A man's life had been lost and I will always regret that. I don't remember much else. I think I must have been very taciturn and unsmiling because they left as soon as they could to go and file their story.

      Tracey and I had a quiet dinner and went to bed early. I could tell she was worried about me but I couldn't find the words to describe what I was feeling. I didn't know whether I was coming or going. At least it was good to lie quietly in the dark with her arms around me.

      The following day, I came downstairs to find Mum decorating the pub with ‘Welcome home!’ banners.

      ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I asked.

      ‘We're having a party,’ she said, and my heart sank into my boots. ‘It's all arranged, all your mates are coming. You'll have a great time!’

      I'd rather have had my fingernails pulled out with pliers, but what could I do?

      About a hundred people came to the party that evening and I hated every minute of it. I had no idea what to expect or how people would treat me. Some seemed nervous of me, unable to meet my eye when they were talking to me. A couple of so-called ‘hard men’ of the neighbourhood suggested we meet up the following week because they had a ‘job’ I might be interested in. I could imagine the kind of thing they had in mind. When you are known to have killed someone, certain people find you intimidating so you can be useful as a debt collector, or providing personal security to gangsters, or driving a car for them. Whatever it was, I wasn't remotely interested in getting involved with the Manchester criminal fraternity and was upset at the suggestion. Was this how I was going to be seen from now on?

      Even worse, one local hard man kept pressing me: ‘What's it like to kill someone? What does it actually feel like?’ There was a gleam in his eye that suggested he was interested in finding out for himself.

      ‘Behave yourself, you muppet!’ I said, and moved away to talk to someone else, upset by his attitude.

      I kept downing pint after pint of lager – something I've always done to give me social confidence, but that night I was doing it to black out the world as well.

      I made a speech thanking everyone for standing by me while I was inside. ‘I wouldn't be here today without you all,’ I said. ‘And I especially want to thank Tracey and tell her that I love her to bits and hope that she'll agree to marry me. The sheer fact that she stood by me is extraordinary.’

      Everyone cheered the roof off at that and Tracey was grinning from ear to ear. It wasn't a surprise to her – we'd discussed marriage before and we both knew we would do it one day when the dust had settled, but I wanted to announce it to the world that night and wear my heart on my sleeve.

      I wished I hadn't, though, when Mum cornered me later. ‘You don't have to marry Tracey just because she stood by you,’ she said. ‘You have to be sure she's the right girl for you.’

      I was annoyed but didn't want to cause a fuss so I just said, ‘I am sure, Mum,’ and walked away.

      When it all got too СКАЧАТЬ