Preston Prison
I knew Ryan, Paul and Chris from my days as Blackpool’s co-ordinator of education for EOTAS. In those early years of 2000, Blackpool tried to keep school teachers happy by excluding (i.e expelling) naughty kids to EOTAS (Education Other than At School) centres, five of which I ran in Blackpool. They were then able to say to central Government that Blackpool was conforming to the national directives for inclusion because the kids were NOT excluded from the town’s broader educational provision. Whatever they said or however they tried to pull the wool, the kids were stigmatised and, for many, the end result was care, detention or prison. The schools could not cope with or sort out the kids’ problems; the prisons were even further off track and simply banged them up for the stretch. Young prisoners shuffled along in some old role model’s wake and got ready for their next stretch.
These three, Paul, Ryan and Chris ended up on the same wing of Preston Prison because of three completely different yet identifiable and treatable conditions.
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Ryan (ADHD)
Ryan Heathcote was 11 on December 15th 1996 and a pupil at BreadStreetPrimary School in Preston.
His teachers, particularly Miss Wilde and her assistant, the young, busty Barbara Singleton knew that he had “difficulties” at home but couldn’t understand why it all carried over to school “where we all try our level best to give him as much support as we can”.
June 1997
“Ryan Heathcote” shouted Miss Wilde. “You are a disgrace to your class. As expected, in the SATs tests you have failed to reach Level Four in English and Science and only just scraped through Level Three in your Maths.”
Miss Wilde, or more properly, Mrs Wilde was Ryan’s Year 6 class teacher. She would be in her late forties, short and tubby with shocking red hair coiffed into a large bun. She almost always wore a floral, shirt-type dress which, if nothing else, tended to emphasise her large arse. Her high heels would announce her arrival from a great distance as she clip-clopped her way around the school or the playground. The children had not yet managed to give her a nickname that was good enough to stand the test of time like “Tin Ribs” (Mr Ironside, the Year Five teacher) or “Fanny” (Mrs Craddock, the ageing doyenne of the Reception teachers.) Such nick-names, whose origins are lost in the mists of time can usually be attributed to a degree of affection for the teacher. It was safe to say that Mrs Wilde did not attract affection.
For Mrs Wilde, confrontation was the first resort; she would never consider “coming alongside.”
She knew perfectly well that Ryan had problems at home but she gave nothing.
“Thicko!” came the usual voice from the back.
“Shut your fucking face, Holford
“I’ll have you in ……..”
“Ryan Heathcote. I’ve told you before about swearing in my class. Go and stand outside. If Mr Webster comes round tell him why you’re there.”
Ryan stood up suddenly and noisily.
“I didn’t even swear” he moaned as he banged his way up the passageway, kicking Holford’s desk violently.
Mr Webster, a youngish man for a head teacher, was appointed to Bread Street just before Christmas. He seemed to Ryan to be more understanding than Wilde or Thompson, the other Year Six teacher.
Whenever Ryan was sent to his room, Mr Webster would sit him down and talk (with mock enthusiasm) about Preston FC and about Ryan’s most recent successes on the football field. He at least tried to “come alongside”.
Mr. Webster would be about 38 years old, a slim, well-dressed, married man with three children, two boys and a girl about the same age as Ryan. He realised that Ryan would soon lose interest in their conversation about football so, seeing the early signs, would change the subject and start talking about “plans” and “strategies” to help Ryan deal with his disruptive behaviour. Mr. Webster had met Ryan’s mother once, on the only occasion apparently since 1991 when either of Ryan’s parents had attended a parents’ evening. At that meeting, she had confirmed to Mr Webster that Ryan simply could not concentrate on homework or other tasks given to him by her or his stepfather who was, incidentally, more often than not under the influence.
While this talk of plans and strategies too became quite predictable and boring for Ryan, it was much easier and pleasanter than listening to Wilde rattling on.
In the staff room, Mr Thompson, a tall, grumpy sixty year old import from Kingskettle in Fife constantly wondered “Why doesn’t Webster just give the lad a thick ear? It worked for us” This he would advocate in the precise Scottish drone that he had retained for the last 40 years or so. Rumour had it that he, Alec Thompson, had been spotted by a Preston FC scout playing for an East Fife junior side when he was at school. He had signed junior forms with Preston and moved down to the area with his mother but was released fourteen months later after being involved in several local schoolboy brawls.
“So much for his ‘thick ear’ theory” was the staffroom reaction where he was not liked anyway.
He married his Preston girlfriend and they settled in the area with their two young children, Alice and Rupert.
Ryan got worse in class. He was unable to concentrate on his work, kept losing exercise books and pieces of equipment and was easy meat for big, beefy Tommy Holford, son of a potato grower with 100 acres just beyond Penwortham. Tommy was obviously a strong lad who enjoyed goading Ryan and other smaller boys in the playground. He wasn’t stupid but, like Ryan and indeed one or two others in the class, he had a very limited attention span. His physical weakness was his eye-sight; he wore thick, bottle glass spectacles in Alan Bennett “National Health” frames. His social weakness was bullying and bullying Ryan in the playground or after school was his favourite pastime. As for Ryan, he had long nurtured the idea of “smashing that fucking bottle round his fat face”.
One Friday morning in early July 1997 Mrs Wilde was trying to deliver a simple French lesson to her Year Six class in preparation for their move to senior school. She had spent most of the previous evening at home delving into the remnants of her own GCE French recollections and was tired. The lesson was not going well, mainly due to Ryan Heathcote whose attention span was even shorter than normal; it was difficult enough to get Ryan and one or two others to follow simple instructions in English, let alone French. In fact, perhaps only six or seven children in the class of
34 were remotely interested in how to order a ham sandwich and a glass of pineapple in a French café.
Mr. Webster decided something had to be done quickly. It was getting towards mid-July, and Ryan would soon be heading for secondary school. His School had registered its concern about Ryan’s educational needs but the parents had studiously avoided getting involved and Bread Street did not even have a properly trained SENCO (Special Educational Needs Co-ordinator) to help him comply with the Government’s policy of including as opposed to excluding difficult children. He knew that his statutory duty was to make provision for Ryan’s special needs. It was a specialist field, not one for a Mrs Wilde type who would willingly accept the SENCO title for a few extra quid and the minimum of inconvenience. Frank Webster knew he had to get things moving quickly for Ryan’s sake. An Educational Plan had to be drawn up with the help of his staff, Ryan’s parents (if possible), educational psychologists, any other “outside agencies” who became necessary and, of course, Ryan himself.
Frank Webster’s ways were different to most. With his more “hands-on”, alongside approach, he decided to invite Ryan to his home, perhaps getting to know him a little better in more relaxed surroundings.
He knew he shouldn’t do it; it was beyond the call of duty and inviting trouble.
It was difficult to measure the enthusiasm of Mrs Heathcote’s response to Mr Webster’s invitation for Ryan to spend the Saturday with the Webster family.
“Yeh, whatever” was her bland reply. “As long as he’s back here for six to look after our Emma.”
Jonathan Webster was younger than Ryan and in Class Four at Bread Street. He was a small, bespectacled, quiet boy very much in the image of his older brother, Richard who had joined Class 8C at St Aidan’s last January.
“You’ll see a lot of Richard when you go to St Aidan’s, Ryan,” said Mr Webster by way of introduction “I’m not quite sure who’ll look out for the other” he said with a wry smile towards the equally quiet, diminutive Mrs Webster. “Rebecca’s there too, in Year 7. I suspect she’ll look after both of you. Oh, I’m sorry she’s not here, Ryan. I did ask her. She’ll be here for lunch in a few minutes; she never misses her food” and, as if on cue, Mrs Webster got up and headed, Ryan guessed, towards the kitchen.
“Can I go to the loo, Sir?” Ryan was beginning to feel hemmed in.
“Of course, Ryan. Eh, there’s no need to call me ‘Sir’ when we’re out of school. Or rather, when we’re here. Please just think of yourself as one of the family” he added, remembering Thompson’s often repeated remark about giving them too much rope.
“Richard, would you show Ryan upstairs, please. You could maybe show him your computer too when you’re there. Hopefully, Rebecca’ll be back soon and we can have some lunch.”
“Fucking hell!” thought Ryan, “could you…” , “please”, “maybe”, “hopefully”,…”lunch” ………..” .he’d never heard so many posh words before. “ ‘Do this’ ‘Do that’ ‘Get your fucking feet off that chair’ “ was more like the level of conversation at their house, if indeed they ever spoke to each other. As for waiting for Rebecca to have lunch, Ryan could not remember when they last sat down together for a meal. It was nice though, this friendliness, this togetherness, even if Mr Webster somehow seemed less in charge than at school.
Ryan sat in the toilet and, although he was “boxed in”, he felt somehow relaxed, looking forward to the family lunch and to meeting Rebecca. There were clearly rules in this house; people spoke to and about each other with respect; there was an order to everything; the toothbrushes in the bathroom were all different colours, the towels neat and clean, the bath clean and tidy. You had to give something to gain something. For once he felt calm.
Ryan didn’t want to escape; but he was disappointed and jealous; jealous because he wanted this kind of order and disappointed because his Mum and step-Dad couldn’t and wouldn’t try to provide it. He cursed them, not even imagining the bumpy rides, the whirlpools, the accidents, the sadness that had dragged them down into their hopeless, drink-sodden selfishness.
Ryan was eleven and confused.
Frank Webster had come across children like Ryan before. He was not trained in S.E.N. (who was?) but he recognised what he had read to be the symptoms of ADHD (Attention Deficit / Hyperactive Disorder) but it was more complicated than that.
Here was a child with ADHD but who, in addition, was marginalised and ignored by his unsupportive parents. A lot of teachers and educational psychologists in the late eighties still clinged to the theory that diet was to blame. Even if it were, Ryan’s Mum would certainly hold with the easy way out and fill Ryan and Emma with additives and chips. Frank had seen ADHD children in supportive families where the parents had made a conscious effort to provide a “healthy” diet but where the children had still presented with the disruptive symptoms of ADHD.
“Of course, a healthy diet” Frank would pronounce at meetings, “but what we need is a well-advised, structured programme of behaviour management, devised with the help of an educational psychologist and maintained at school and in the home.” He knew that Ryan would be leaving Bread Street next month with nothing like this in place. Thompson, Wilde and the others would be happy to see the back of him but it didn’t look good for Ryan and the others.
Ryan enjoyed a brief ten minutes with Richard and his computer before the penetrating laughter of Rebecca began drifting upstairs.
“Ryan, Richard!” Jonathan hollered from downstairs. “Lunch!”
The dining room was small with seating for five or six. There was an oval table in mock oak and two or three cheap, pointless prints on the wall. Rebecca and Jonathan were already seated and in lively, laughing chatter.
Ryan was immediately smitten by Rebecca’s smile, her refreshing, cool, blue, honest eyes and her softly tanned skin. She wore a simple, cerise blouse with a narrow choker in a light blue that matched her eyes. She would smile and say something then laughingly look around as if for approval or appreciation.
“Can Ryan sit there, Mum?” shouted Jonathan, indicating the seat opposite Rebecca who, noticeably shut up and inspected the visitor.
The lunch was simple: roast chicken with home-made chips and salad, followed by apple tart and custard. Iced water was in a big jug in the middle of the table with two slices of lemon floating in it. Each place-setting had a different coloured paper napkin, a side plate with two triangles of sliced bread and a glass, presumably for that water. Mr and Mrs Webster and Jonathan brought in the six plates of chicken and chips, and the large bowl of salad with serving spoons.
Rebecca and Richard stopped their loud laughter. The room fell totally silent
“Lord, bless this food for which we thank You” then immediately
came alive again with Rebecca holding centre stage once more.
Ryan didn’t feel comfortable. He felt hemmed in again; the situation was new to him. But the company was good. There was no aggression and everyone communicated with each other. Frank Webster could see that Ryan was relatively relaxed and wished that he had been around at Bread Street to sort out or at least start to address the SEN problems of his Year Five/Year Six pupils. To press they had been totally ignored.
“Richard and I have season tickets at Deepdale” he announced.
“Do you fancy joining us at the match this afternoon, Ryan? Mrs Webster is going out shopping but Jonathan and Rebecca do the washing up on a Saturday afternoon and some prep. for the evening meal. You have to be home by six but it’s entirely up to you.”
Ryan was gob smacked. Conversation, choice, mutual respect, duties and rewards?
Rebecca had shut up.
“Can I stay with Jonathan ………… and Rebecca?” Ryan asked.
“Of course you can. But if nobody’s back by quarter past five, you must set off home, Ryan.”
A hint of a smile washed Rebecca’s lips. She looked down and gazed at her pudding.
After lunch Mr and Mrs Webster and Richard went their separate ways while Rebecca and Jonathan, with the help of Ryan, cleaned up the lunch dishes and set table for the evening meal. Even in this calm environment Ryan felt relieved that he was on his feet, up and about. He was glad too when the kitchen chores were complete and Jonathan suggested a game of “American singles” at table tennis. After ten minutes of Ryan winning game after game, Rebecca became fed up and went off to the computer in her room. She left the door open though, so that the three could continue their loud banter.
Another half hour or so and Jonathan disappeared downstairs.
Ryan headed aimlessly to Rebecca’s room.
She was playing a game of tennis on her computer. Ryan saw the opportunity, zoomed in and immediately sat next to her. He noticed a scent which he had not noticed earlier and briefly wondered how she was managing to operate the relevant keys on the board for each player. But she was happy to explain them to Ryan and they played for three or four minutes.
“Can I take your phone number, Rebecca, eh, in case I have problems with our computer?”
Then, quite suddenly, he gave Rebecca a gentle kiss on the cheek. He didn’t know what on earth had possessed him to make such a rash move. What would the consequences be? Her father was his Head Teacher; the family had been so welcoming. He had never experienced such kindness from “ordinary” people let alone a teacher AND his family.
“Fuck it! Why did I do that? Why can’t I think first?” he asked himself. He withdrew a few inches from Rebecca’s reddening cheek but still watched her. Her gaze dropped to the keyboard as to the pudding at lunchtime. Then, quite unexpectedly, she looked up and, turning to Ryan, kissed him gently on the lips.
She beat a hasty, embarrassed retreat downstairs.
While she, Rebecca, sat in the lounge on her own, regretting the outcome of her little plot, Ryan, now oblivious to the recent events, immersed himself for the next couple of hours in the programmes on her computer.
The ‘phone rang. Rebecca came upstairs and, at the door to her own bedroom announced sheepishly to Ryan:
“Dad’s just rung to remind you that you have to be home by six o’clock. It’s twenty past five now and they’re stuck in a traffic jam.”
“What’s the quickest way from here to our house?”
“I’ll come with you and show you. You get ready.”
Ryan had always been able to notice minute details in and around everyday events. Specialist educational psychologists were beginning to agree that such a characteristic was at the root of ADHD and that possibly stimulants like methylphenidate (rather than tranquilisers) helped increase levels of dopamine in the affected brain thus helping it to cope more easily with the volume of stimuli.
Ryan felt as if the show was over. She was no longer that bubbly, giggling, almost coquette twelve year old. She was telling him what to do, not like at home where the orders, punctuated by bad language, were given for the convenience of his drunken step-father. A feeling that Rebecca might actually care about him was short-lived and confusing.
They walked together in the afternoon sun to the end of the estate, not saying much. Ryan irritated Rebecca by pulling at leaves from bushes and hedges hanging over garden walls until they came to the end of the narrow, short-cut path which led on to a big sports field. Ryan recognised the field but not the access. There were lots of young people playing serious football, some playing less seriously, younger children with their parents and grandparents exercising themselves and their dogs and older couples just ambling.
A few yards into the field, things became cramped. Two pitches adjoined each other and Ryan took Rebecca’s hand to help her through the mêlée. She felt no urge to resist.
“Ha, ha! Heatcote’s a poof!” someone shouted.
It was Tommy Holford, five yards away, on the touchline of one of the serious matches. He laughed raucously to impress his gathered friends; his spectacles glistened in the late sun, a rag to a bull.
Ryan let go of Rebecca’s hand and darted the few yards to the big, fat, mocking face. He leapt the last couple of feet then drove his tightly-clenched fist into the dazzling pool of teeth and glass.
He didn’t notice the people scattering; he didn’t notice his broken, cut hand. All he saw was the bleeding, contorted ball of flesh that was Holford’s face. Like a rugby player converting a try, he buried his right foot into Holford’s face. There was a sickening crunch; then he turned and moved towards Rebecca.
But she had gone.
Spectators and players milled around Holford’s fallen torso; Ryan saw his chance to run, to escape.
Neither Ryan’s Mum nor his step-Dad noticed or heeded Ryan’s pain. Instead, they went out that evening as usual and Emma watched television while Ryan bathed his now blue, very sore knuckles. Although his kick had been a “toe-bash”, he felt certain he had broken something there too. Once again he started to panic. What should he do? Where should he go? What about Emma?
Mr Webstar had asked him to see himself as “one of the family” and Rebecca had given him their phone number which, of course, would be ex-directory. Just as he was contemplating ringing the Websters, the doorbell rang. Emma let in a police constable and a WPC. The man did all the talking; the WPC, an attractive blond girl, seemed to concentrate on Emma. They were both in their twenties yet clearly used to dealing with “domestics”.
“Is your Mum or Dad in?” asked the bobby. They sat down, the constable in the only armchair and the WPC with Emma, on the couch.
“They’re out, as usual” said Ryan.
“Have you hurt your hand, Ryan?”
“Yeh. I slipped in the bath.”
“We know what happened this afternoon between you and Thomas Holford” the constable said. “Eh….do you think Emma would like a drink, Auntie Sue?” he asked, nodding towards what he thought would be the kitchen. Emma left, hand in hand with Sue.
Constable Thornton waited for the room to clear. He obviously knew his stuff but he had that unfortunate look of a TV extra playing a bobby. The hat never looks right.
“Tommy’s just come out of intensive care, Ryan. He’ll probably lose an eye. How do you feel about that, Ryan?”
Ryan said nothing. He simultaneously raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.
“So?”
Constable Thornton was used to this sort of stonewalling.
It was so predictable. There was absolutely no point in being aggressive. He would collect the evidence then complete his report. Tomorrow or the day after, he would hear about his application to join the “Rapid Response” in Manchester. Ryan Heathcote would be well forgotten.
The police completed their enquiry and prepared to leave.
“Let’s have a look at that hand, Ryan” said the slim, pretty WPC.
“Mmm, nothing’s broken at least; I can’t say you wouldn’t deserve it though.”
“Now, now WPC” said her colleague. “Come on; it’s almost end of shifty-poos. Try to stay out of trouble, Ryan. Anyway, you could be in deep shit already, if that lad’s parents want to press charges. Get your parents to give me a ring tomorrow, preferably between eight and nine p.m. if they have any queries. I’ve no doubt you’ll be hearing from us” with which he and his colleague left.
The following morning, Sunday, Ryan felt quite good. His hand was still bruised and very stiff. He had forgotten Rebecca and never even gave a thought to Tom Holford. In fact he went into Preston centre to look for some friends.
On Monday morning, Mr Webster sent for Ryan.
“Ryan, I’ve had a call from the Police this morning. You know what it’s about, of course.”
“What did they want with you, Sir?”
“Well, they knew somehow that you had spent the afternoon at our house and then they were obviously involved in the incident at the park where one of my pupils tried to blind another of my pupils.”
“Sorry, Sir.”
“Well, I’m sorry too Ryan. I don’t mean to criticise. It’s just, my wife and Rebecca were very upset yesterday when the police came round. They asked us if you seemed on edge …..even asked Mrs Webster what she had given you for lunch ……. and Rebecca of course saw the incident and was quite traumatised…….you know, disturbed by that and the police visit. Then Mr Holford spoke to your Mum on the phone…………..apparently you had gone into Preston ……………… and he rang me this morning. What he’d like to do to you is nobody’s business.”
Ryan was totally confused by all these references to so many people.
“Tom is out of intensive care, thank God, but it’s still touch and go with his eye.”
Ryan was getting angry.
“He fu…….. he called me a poof……….Sir.”
“Mmm. That’s hardly a reason to maim the lad for life, Ryan, especially these days” he added with the hint of a rueful smile.
“Tom’ll be lucky to start St. Aidan’s in September” Mr Webster mused.
“Sit down, Ryan. Let’s try and talk this through.”
They both sat, Mr Webster behind his desk, Ryan in front with his head cradled in his hands; his eyes, perhaps filling with tears, looked downward. He wasn’t sorry for Holford, for what’s-her-name, Rebecca, for Mrs Webster for any of the bastards. It was all just too much.
Frank knew he had to get alongside. But time was short.
“Ryan, we close for the summer next week. I think I understand how things work for you and I know you appreciate you need help.
I think you’ve got a little condition called ADHD. It’s not a big problem, Ryan; there are people out there who know exactly how to help you. I’d like your parents to be involved but we both know that could be difficult. Things should have been set in motion long before I got here and you’re moving on to a new school, St Aidan’s, in September. I’ve not even met Mr. Critchley, the Head Teacher, but I need to start what’s called the “statementing process” as soon as possible. Together we’ll do it, Ryan.”
During the Summer holidays, Ryan was totally bored. He went into Preston, he looked after Emma, he did not attempt to contact Rebecca, but he did go to the park for the occasional game of football. He found that the general attitude had changed. The fun had gone to a large extent. Nobody tackled him hard, the way he liked it. Even in town, the rough and tumble wasn’t there; friends seemed to give him more space. He heard people say to each other things like “Be careful”, “Don’t upset”, “He can be ….”
He started at St. Aidan’s on Tuesday 4th September. He knew two-thirds of the class who were from Bread Street and other neighbouring primary schools. Richard Webster was there but tended to ignore him. He supposed Rebecca would be there in Year 8, but there was no sign of her and no sign of Tom Holford who, he had heard, had not lost his eye.
If anything, other pupils tended to ignore him too which, he felt, was a little strange. He had been far from the ideal pupil at Bread Street but he had always been there, in the thick of things. He was pleased Holford wasn’t there, though.
The morning was full of boring tasks like putting his name on exercise books, pasting copies of the school rules on the inside cover of one of them and flicking paper pellets at other pupils with his plastic ruler. Nobody actually challenged him or told him to stop. Christ, it was so boring!
At break that morning, it was raining. Apparently, you were allowed to stay indoors as long as you went to your Form room and stayed there. You could go outside and, if the rain was too heavy, you could shelter in the cycle sheds. Ryan went into the sheds to explore and was struck immediately by the sight of a beautiful red and blue mountain bike that was not even locked up so, without giving it a thought, he jumped on board and buzzed around a little group of half a dozen older boys.
“You! What are you doing there? Stop! STOP!”
A tall, thin, even lanky bloke with a deep voice, yet in a school uniform, pointed to a spot where, Ryan supposed, he wanted him to stop. Stuff him! Ryan continued his joyride round and round the cycle shed. When he got to a point as far as possible from His Lankiness he quickly dismounted and, leaving the bike lying on the floor, ran off to the main school building.
The next hour or so involved Ryan, his class and all the other Year 7 kids marching to the assembly hall where the pupils sat on the floor and listened to Critchley introducing himself, the Second Deputy Head, the Year Seven Form Teachers, the various subject Heads and the Year Head, a Mr Dews who was quite small and slim and bespectacled, in his early thirties and with a nasty, built-in streak of self importance.
All these new faces, new names. new instructions and a whole new way of organising the lessons, with classes moving to teachers rather than teachers to classes, was far too much for Ryan to handle.
Mr Webster had been in touch with the about-to-retire Mr Critchley who had done nothing, beyond informing the Lower School SENCO, Mr Charlesworth, that three or four kids with mild to severe learning difficulties were coming from Bread Street. He already knew of some from Low Willows and some from St. Cuthberts.
Mr Charlesworth was a very pleasant, laid-back chap in his early fifties who had attended a handful of courses about children with special educational needs. He was actually a history teacher for most of most days but, for his extra £1000 per annum, he had to attend monthly meetings with one of the Deputy Heads and the Head of Lower School, during which they reviewed the IEP’s and Statements of children with difficulties.
At the time, and even today to a degree, SEN children were not really welcome in mainstream schools because of their adverse affect of the “league tables”. These tables emphasised, in the public’s eye, the numbers of grades A – C at GCSE. They affected the popularity of a school. SEN children were seen as failing the whole system.
In my view the whole system failed the SEN children who have their own needs and aspirations. The provision for these needs and the success of such provision should be accommodated and assessed in much broader-based league tables. We all know there are various ways of skinning a cat and, as the Government moved towards inclusion in education, individual authorities still allowed schools to EXclude “difficult” children on the grounds that they could be INcluded in other provision made by the Authority (like PRUs / YOIs etc); perhaps not quite what was envisaged by the bureaucrats but certainly more workable.
League points could then be awarded to the County for its universal provision and its overall appropriateness.
All pupils must be given the chance of success not the inevitability of failure.
Incidentally, some readers might not be quite clear about the difference between “self-esteem” and “ego”. The OED defines “self-esteem” as “a good opinion of oneself” and “ego” as “a sense of self-esteem”.
I think that, in educational circles, “self-esteem” refers to one’s opinion of oneself; it can be high, medium or low, justified or not; it is displayed rather than expressed. “Ego” tends to refer more to the expressed feeling about oneself.
For example, a person with low self-esteem and high ego might emerge as a successful actor or performing musician. In young people, it might present as a frustrated bully, frustrated because he/she cannot achieve with the tasks given to him/her and a bully because he/she can succeed at being a bully. We all want and need to be successful.
A person with high self-esteem and lowish ego might be a successful professional, quite nice to know.
A child with high self-esteem and big ego would be a precocious pain in the arse, and so on.
Ryan had low self-esteem and was developing a bigger ego now that he had battered Tommy Holford. The bully was emerging.
At lunchtime that day, Ryan waited for his lunch with quite a large group of other children on “free dinners”. (Yet another “flagging-up” of failure!). Ryan expressed his frustration and his supremacy by discreetly “kneeing” a possible queue-jumper in the groin.
After lunch, he took to the roof of the cycle shed, walking as if on a tight-rope along the apex until “His Lankiness” shouted him down.
This was Day One of Ryan’s secondary school education. It progressed over the weeks, months and years, deeper and deeper into the trough of confrontation and failure, the failure of Ryan to meet the prerequisites of the system and the failure of the system to meet Ryan’s needs. Everybody confronted Ryan; nobody confronted his problems.
In June 1999, after several meaningless exclusions, continued evidence of the Heathcote family dysfunction and the involvement of Social Services, Ryan was committed to care in one of their homes. One-to-one tuition with a retired teacher dragged him further into the trough until, in January 2002, after a drunken festive brawl involving an incident where Ryan stabbed another resident, he was committed to an indefinite stay at a Young Offenders Institute in Lancaster. It had been open, harsh and abrasive at Larkholme, but nothing like the YOI where Ryan soon learned the pecking order and whom to avoid in the showers. Three years later, totally alone, despised and helpless, he was welcomed to B-Wing at Preston Prison.
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Paul (ASBO) (DOB October 1985)
Paul Tyson and his family moved to Blackpool in November 1991 when Paul was just six. Until then the family home had been just outside Moffat in the Scottish Lowlands and Paul had a good record at the local primary school. He enjoyed sport and got on well with his teachers and his classmates. The fact that he was a tall, good-looking blond lad with big, smiling, blue eyes quite clearly helped him with his teachers and more than one of the girls in his year group.
Nobody really knew why the family had moved down south but word had it that his thirty-four year old father, John and his younger mother, Ruth were in some sort of trouble with the local police.
Paul settled well at his new school, Thames Road in Blackpool’s South Shore, gaining a Level Three in the English and in the Maths “SATS” of that year. John got a seasonal job at the Pleasure Beach and Ruth soon started work as a “dinner lady” at Palatine Secondary School, half a mile from Thames Road and, “to complete the job”, as John enjoyed explaining to everyone, they succeeded in getting a small flat at the top end of Watson Road, within relatively easy walking distance of Thames Road, the Pleasure Beach and Palatine School.
Things went quite smoothly and Paul enjoyed his remaining three years at Thames Road. Having been “spotted” by a Blackpool FC scout, he was invited to join their School of Excellence which met at Squire’s Gate.
He had no problem with, and actually enjoyed the strict discipline imposed on these boys, some of whom would be destined to become professional footballers in years to come.
After his first season at the PleasureBeach, Paul’s father was promoted to a permanent year-round job where he worked as a general handyman during the winter months and would run one of the main rides for a concession holder during the summer. As a permanent employee, John then qualified for one of the PleasureBeach flats, still on Watson Road but literally only yards from the PleasureBeach and ThamesRoadSchool. It was a first floor one-bedroomed affair with bathroom and kitchenette. Paul had the bedroom ; John and Ruth had a bed-settee in the sitting/dining room. It was part of a terraced house divided into three flats and so typical of the over-crowded town.
Many such privately-owned flats were only “winter lets” which doubled as much more profitable “summer lets” for the rest of the year. The winter residents would rent something for the summer in the outskirts or share accommodation with friends who lived in the large estates of Layton or GrangePark. But John and his small family now had permanent accommodation. Things were going well.
John always seemed happier in the summer, socialising with his fellow workers over a few pints after a long shift and his good humour rubbed off on their home life. At weekends, if John had a day off he, Ruth and Paul might catch a train to the Lakes or spend the day at home with two or three of Paul’s school friends.
In his first year at PalatineSchool, in 1996-97, Paul had a wonderful time. He was Captain of the Year 7 Soccer, getting into the top sets for most of his subjects and, not uncommonly, getting extra chips or sausages from his mother at lunch-time. He was still in the company of lots of friends from Thames Road but, having taken easily to the new, much busier secondary school scenario, he now had hundreds of friends, boys and girls.
One was Rachel McIntyre, an attractive, dark twelve year old, who often came back home with Paul after school. They did homework together, watched television or played computer games; if Rachel was still around at teatime she would often join the family.
Rachel and Paul were “an item”. They even started to attend South Shore Youth Club on a Wednesday evening and had attended their third meeting when they were chatting outside the gate of the Tyson flat at about 9.10 p.m..
There was a knock on the window of the flat. Rachel and Paul instinctively looked up; John, on a night off, was beckoning to the two of them to come upstairs.
“It’s getting late” said Rachel. “Your Dad obviously wants you in and I should get home”.
“It’s only just after nine and you’re not usually home ‘til about ten. They might want to invite you on a trip this weekend. Please come up, just for half an hour or so.”
Without protest or further discussion, they turned towards the entrance. John had disappeared from the window.
“It’s starting to rain anyway” Rachel mumbled, as if justifying her compliance to herself.
They stopped just inside the doorway; Paul gave Rachel a quick, gentle kiss on the cheek…………..a sort of “thank you”, and they headed upstairs.
Rachel’s home was “posher” than Paul’s. She and her family lived in a terraced house just round the corner on Lytham Road. Paul had been there seven or eight times; this would be Rachel’s fifth or sixth visit to Watson Road.
Paul led the way upstairs, opened the door of the flat and then,
ignoring etiquette, preceded Rachel into the flat. There was nobody in the main room, which seemed strange to Paul. Rachel stood next to him and was about to set off home when the bathroom door burst open.
John stood there completely naked. He rocked in a drunken stupor, clenching his erect penis. Ruth, also naked, watched
him sheepishly from inside the bathroom.
Rachel screamed then rushed from the room, down the stairs and homewards. Paul stood frowning incredulously at the disgusting scene then, realising Rachel had gone he too rushed downstairs and outside, in hot pursuit.
He caught up with the sobbing, breathless Rachel outside the Baptist church, fifty or sixty yards from her house. He took her arm.
“Leave me alone! Leave me! Leave me!” she shouted, trying to free her arm. She couldn’t even look at Paul.
“Rachel, I had …………………..”
“Let me go!……….. Paul,…..(sigh) ………….please let me go.” She was calmer. Paul loosened his grip, but didn’t let go completely.
“Rachel, ………” he started again. It was the last ditch; he might never see her again.
“Rachel, can I ………….?”
“That was disgusting…………horrible”. She wiped her eyes swiftly.
Paul released his hold.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Honest” His voice all but disappeared.
Rachel sniffed longly and wiped her eyes again. She looked at Paul from under drooped eyelids. She was totally calm now.
“Goodbye” she said and headed homewards.
Paul watched her, turned around then wandered for an hour or so, before going home. He crept through the darkness to his room then cried ‘til dawn.
The following day, Thursday, Rachel was not at school; on Friday, they saw each other but Rachel made it clear she “did not want to know”.
That Thursday and Friday, Paul ignored his parents and tried desperately to plan leaving home, something he had never contemplated before.. Of course, if he left the area, he would loose his Blackpool FC connection and, more importantly, leave behind any hope of regaining Rachel.
On Saturday morning, John confronted Paul outside the bathroom.
“Paul, son, I’m very, very sorry about the other night. I don’t know what I was thinking about ……..I mean, in front of you ………I was drunk, Paul. I’m sorry.”
“Dad, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Please forgive me, Paul. I………..”
“Get fucked!”
Paul had learnt through his football, that swearing was a weakness; he had certainly never sworn at or in front of his parents before. But his father had never done anything so disgusting in front of him before; more importantly, he had humiliated his mother and frightened off Rachel.
He brushed past John and went outside, nowhere in particular.
The next few days was a series of brief domestic encounters punctuated by grunts, phrases and, eventually, short sentences.
About two weeks later, they could all reluctantly look each other in the eye.
Rachel had befriended an older boy in Year 9.
“Could we sit down and have a chat, Paul, just you and me?” asked John. “We could maybe go to the Winmarith tomorrow, after tea” he suggested.
“I suppose so.” was all Paul could muster.
At the meeting, in the nearly-empty pub, John came from the bar and sat down with Paul. After a few “sippers”, John said
“Paul, I’m sorry about the other night.”
“Yeh, OK. You said so”
“ I’m going to be honest, Paul. Your Mum and I have had problems with this sort of thing before.”
“What sort of thing?”
John was determined to see this through.
“Well, in Moffat, we got into trouble for having sex in front of teenagers. It excited us both. I’m sorry, Paul. Your Mum and I both love you so much.”
“Problems? Trouble?” Paul looked away from John, then cast his gaze downwards.
“With the police, Paul. I’m sorry, Paul. We both …….”
“Yeh, I know. What do you want me to do? Rachel doesn’t want to know me; my friends are wondering what’s up. What do you want me to fucking do?”
Paul’s swearing hurt John.
“If I’m caught asking young people to …….kids to ………….to watch us having sex, I’ll be sent down………. jailed.”
“So?”
“OK, Paul. I’ll give you a hundred and fifty quid to get us a couple of kids to come to the flat………..two boys, a boy and a girl, anything. Your Mum and I must have it, Paul.”
Paul breathed in deeply through his nose then immediately realised how he might buy back Rachel. He felt like telling him to stuff his money.
“I’ll think about it” he said, and got up to leave.
Paul thought and thought, over and over about his father’s offer. He was disgusted by it all. God! What a dirty bastard! But, a hundred and fifty quid? He could buy Rachel all sorts of presents.
And, if that didn’t work, with that kind of money he’d get any girl he wanted. Then, if he drops me in it again, I’ll shop him to the bobbies. The dirty shit!
He thought for a while.
He would have to be careful, though. He couldn’t get anyone from Palatine …………..or anyone from the Youth Club ………. or Blackpool FC.
He wondered how old they should be. The dirty sod!
He could go to St Annes or down to Cleveleys, invite them home to play his computer where they would accidentally see them at it, then stick the kids on a tram or bus back home.
It had to be accidental and people he wouldn’t see again …….or people he could at least trust. They could be doing it as he left his room, going through the main room with the kids on their way home.
Yeh!
The summer season 1998 was coming up. Paul was completing Year 8. He saw a golden opportunity to meet his father’s ever-increasing demands and, by now, Rachel was completely out of his thoughts. He had explained his terms and conditions to John; Ruth stayed out of all that, her only interest being to comply with John’s depraved wishes.
Paul had made it clear that, since John had only wanted children in their early teens, he had to get them out of the flat and on their way home by 7 p.m at the latest. He had to have the cash in advance too, so that he could pay them their inevitable winnings on the computer games.
The plan had to be that he would leave the flat before the youngsters on the pretext that he was picking up their winnings; he would lock the door on the way out and remove the key so that John or Ruth eventually had to go to the youngsters and let them out. Whatever happened then was up to John; Paul would be at the Youth Club, establishing his alibi. The encounter was an accident and Paul was in no way involved.
His first arranged trip was to a small gaming arcade in St Annes
one Sunday afternoon in early May 1998.
Basically, the system worked well. It involved two teenage boys whom Paul met at the arcade. He let them win on several games, telephoned home on his mobile then took them home to Blackpool. After a few minutes playing on his computer, he left to supposedly pick up some cash but went to the Youth Club for half an hour. He then returned home, gave the giggling boys their “winnings” of £20 then saw them on to a bus to St.Annes. It was all over by 5.30 and Paul had netted £130. As they got on the bus, the boys even asked when they could do it all again. 13 year-old Paul was successful. But he realised he had to move about and so, for his next foray, two or three weeks later, he headed to Fleetwood. He had become quite clinical now; he didn’t think about what went on after the gaming on his computer. The kids stayed behind for two minutes, ten minutes, whatever. At the end of it all, with the kids on the bus or tram, he had netted over £100.
It was not long before the now 14 year-old Paul came across the influence of drugs in deprived communities such as Fleetwood.
On one of his trips to the town’s arcades he came across Sammy Kidd who, it emerged, was the twenty-six year old, self-styled “baron” of Fleetwood.
He was a short, wiry specimen with close-cropped, greasy fair hair who was sporting a cheap, dark brown “leather” jacket. His jeans, with designer rips and blotches, looked out of place against what was obviously a very expensive pair of trainers.
He drew Paul aside from the machine where he was grooming a couple of 15 year-old girls.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Paul ……………… Paul…. Bamber” ; he used the surname of his PE teacher. “Why?”
“It’s alright, kid. I’ll call you Paul. I’ve been watching you two or three times. You’re from Blackpool, yeh?”
“He can’t be a copper, dressed and speaking like that” Paul mistakenly thought.
“Why?” he asked.
“Well, I’ve got a good idea what you’re up to, Paul. I just thought I could help you make a bit more money, you know?”.
“Doing what?” In three or four years time he would have added “you scruffy little pusher”.
“You’ve smoked a bit of weed before, yeh?”
Paul hadn’t smoked anything before.
“Come round the back and I’ll show you some decent kit,” Sammy proposed.
“Naw, you’re OK” said Paul, eying the two girls he would certainly lose.
Sammy smiled. “Don’t worry about them, Paul. They’ll still be here in half an hour.” He walked over to them, spent a minute talking and gesticulating at the machine as if to give them advice, then threw what looked like a screwed-up £5 note on to the console.
He came back, still smiling.
“Come on, Paul. Follow me.”
Without murmur or protest Paul followed Sammy outside, to the back of the arcade and to the edge of a large, empty car park overlooking some dirty little industrial units and lock-ups.
Sammy lit what Paul much later realised was an ordinary cigarette and drew deeply on it. He coughed loud and long.
“Shit, I haven’t smoked for bleedin’ ages” he lied, handing Paul a ready-made spliff. “Try it” he said. “It’s proper stuff, know what I mean”. He indicated to Paul to put it in his mouth, lit a match and dragged on his own cigarette. He proffered the light to Paul and coughed again.
Paul automatically followed instructions then he too, of course, retched violently.
“Hundred, hundred and fifty quid a week, Paul. But you’ve got to know what your floggin’, know what I mean?”
Paul’s lungs were sore; his mouth tasted terrible. Stupid bravura made him try again. Vomit welled in his throat.
“There’s my card, Paul. Maybe you’re not the right guy to be my rep in Blackpool. I’ll get these girls to meet you here tomorrow, at two. Don’t worry. I’ll get you a taxi to take you back to Blackpool. What’s your address?”
Hook, line and sinker.
As he settled in the cab, his feeling of nausea gave way to euphoria.
“A hundred or a hundred and fifty pounds a week! On good weeks,
I’ll make three hundred quid!” he thought.
The following day, as arranged, Paul turned up at the arcade and again, met the two girls. Kidd appeared ten minutes later and again took Paul outside.
“I’ve got some kit you can get rid of in Blackpool” he said. “It’s dead easy, man. All you have to do is go to the snooker parlour at the bottom of Withnell Road, meet Charlie Tulley and he’ll give you a patch which’ll be yours and where you can flog these; look.
this is the usual size for your sort of patch; it’s called a ‘teenth’”
“What do they do with that?”
“They shave it into little bits with a good knife or a grater. Look”
He shaved off a few slivers, then got a pouch of loose tobacco from one pocket and a packet of Rizlas from the other .
“I’ll roll a spliff for you, then get you to do one. Some of your clients might be disabled and want you to roll them a few” he lied.
After this, they both had a smoke, Paul again coughing and retching and Sammy doing the same but smoking “overhand” to conceal the regular fag.
“Don’t pay Charlie more than twelve pound a teenth, know what I mean?” advised Sammy, knowing full well that Charlie would charge him ten pounds and he, Paul, would get fifteen on the market.
“Charlie will meet you tomorrow at half past two. That’s gonna be your time, Paul, half past two on a Thursday”
Again, Paul groomed the two girls briefly, arranged a meeting with them for that weekend then, again feeling sickly but euphoric,, took a cab back to Blackpool.
The next day Paul, having had a good lie-in and a spot of lunch, made his way down Withnell Road, half a mile from Watson Road.
As soon as he went upstairs, one of two older men playing snooker looked at him and quite loudly asked:
“Paul?”
“Yes”
“Just have a seat, Paul. I’ll be with you in a second”
Paul sat for more like ten minutes watching the two fifty year olds playing, talking and laughing. One or two younger lads came and went, each little group eyeing Paul who was, quite clearly, a new recruit waiting for Charlie.
Eventually, he came over to meet Paul.
Charlie, or whatever his name was, would be in his early fifties. He was fairly tall but with quite an expansive midriff contained in what was probably not a cheap, dark suit. His copious, black hair and sultry skin gave him a Mediterranean look but when he spoke, he was clearly a little more local.
“Ma name’s no Charlie Tulley by the way”, he said, sitting down next to Paul and retrieving a black attaché case from the floor near him.
“We dinnae use oor ane names onyway, an’ we’ll no meet here a’ the time.”
He went on in his thick brogue to explain how the system worked. He would sell Paul as many teenths as he wanted at £10 a teenth.
(“A bargain” thought Paul, who now knew he would get £15 outside)
“Charlie” gave Paul a patch of four sites SouthShore with a map showing each venue, a night for each and, for the moment at least, where the punters would come to buy.
“Remember, nae names; nae pack drill. Get the money furst then haund ower the kit. How much dae ye want? A’ suggest thurty teenths fur yer furst week. Ye’ll wanna wee drap yersel’. That’ll be three hunner quid.”
Fortunately, Paul had brought his earnings to date, plus a few quid “borrowed” from his father, and he could just cover it.
“Next week, same time, Imperial Hotel. Reception”.
Paul followed “Charlie’s” instructions to the letter and, by the end of the summer holidays in 1998, he had taken the two Fleetwood girls home twice and the St Annes boys once more. He kept well away from what was happening in the house; in fact, he hoped that he would soon have made enough contacts for his Dad and be able to concentrate on his patch which, very soon was turning over £500 – £600 a week. In reality, he didn’t like the “dirtiness” of his parents’ scene and the fact that, although the children came from outside Blackpool, they were his age or younger and it could mean trouble for him if he wasn’t careful. On his patch, the punters were in employment, 18 or over. At 14 years of age the police, apparently, would not see him as a pusher.
Back at school in September 1998, Paul continued to impress. He sensibly kept his “business interests” well clear of school and Blackpool FC. He had lost Rachel but was easily able to satisfy other girls with his relative wealth.
By February 1999 he was on a complete high. He was in all the top sets at school, he was playing and training with Blackpool’s top junior team and he was earning on average £150-£200 per week. The only downside was that he did enjoy a couple of spliffs at the weekend.
By November 2000, at the age of 16, he was in his final year at school, was preparing for what now could only be “good” GCSE’s and was “earning” about £300 a week. He was dependent on marijuana, trying an occasional snort of cocaine and being watched by the police.
His big day came one Saturday during the Easter holidays of 2001. Blackpool was busy with tourists, some of whom had become regular customers on Paul’s patch and the place was alive with young teenagers who took little or no grooming to join his father and mother. These kids being “one-offs”, Paul did not have to wait outside for the end of the sordid theatre. He could concentrate on his patch. That was producing real money.
As he left the car park of the “Pig and Whistle” walking proudly with pockets full of “readies”, he was lifted two or three inches off the ground on each bent arm and carried to a waiting “meat wagon” into which he was unceremoniously dumped.
By this time, the good-looking, gifted Paul Tyson could look forward to zero GCSEs, several breached ASBO’s, a custodial sentence in a YOI then remand, pending sentence, in Preston Prison.
********************
Chris Falconer (13 in February 1998)
Chris was from a single parent family. He attended Christ the KingSchool in Preston and lived in quite a pleasant semi overlooking the Ribble, about three minutes walk from the School, The neighbours tried to get their children into other secondaries because most of them were white and not Roman Catholic. The majority of the pupils at Christ the King were from Asian families living on the east side of the city centre, a mile or so from the School, not Roman Catholic and, as if to add to the juxtapositions, the Head Teacher was Dutch and spoke with an Irish accent.
Mrs Falconer was in her late thirties, an attractive, 5’9” firm-figured brunette who definitely knew her mind and had no problem telling others of that. This might well have been one of the reasons why she now found herself single.
Janet Falconer was not educated, but she did have a bit of class. She worked as a supervisor in a telephone call centre in Preston where most of the employees were Asian. While she certainly was able to stand up for herself and she always protected Chris with almost bestial ferocity, she never got involved with the School or even enquired about Chris’s progress..
Chris was in Year 8 in September 1998. In his form, there were six white children and eighteen Asian children, most of whom had been born in Preston but six or seven of whom had come from West Yorkshire or the Midlands. Education of this motley group and, indeed, the whole of the School was really a matter of containment. Success in the School was measured by the number of riots or serious fights you had attended in a school year; the number of GCSE passes or, shall we say, non-failures (A – E) came quite far down the list.
Chris never shone at schoolwork. He was popular, he had a friend, Yasmin, he played cricket and basketball for the School teams on the rare occasions when they had matches and he had inherited his sultry good looks from his mother.
He would be about 5’6” tall, of athletic build, with thick dark hair and penetrating, well-spaced brown eyes. Nobody ever challenged him, physically or mentally. Nor did he challenge others. A more erudite group might say that he preferred to keep his own counsel.
In September 1999, things began to change. A new, young, “supply” teacher, Roger Myerscough, came to Christ the King to replace Chris’s English teacher, Mrs Edge, who was on “sick leave”, caused by stress.
Myerscough was recently out of training where he had shown interest in SEN (Special Educational Needs). Chris had scored poorly in his Stage 3 SATS, his highest achievement being a Level 5 in Maths. In English, he scored a lowly Level 4. Myerscough rightly suspected something might be amiss. To date, Chris’s teachers had judged him to be pleasantly dull and, frankly, not far from his peer group mould in academic terms. Myerscough had access to the WRAT3 Test (Wide Range Achievement Test) and the Miles Bangor Dyslexia Test. The former is a test of decoding and encoding skills in Maths and English. It merely tests a candidate’s ability to perform non-cognitive mathematical operations such as 1 + 3 = ? to f (x)= 3x² + x – 7 so find f (-2). In English there were tests of spelling and reading skills with no reference to meaning or interpretation. For example, Spell ‘and’ to “Spell ‘ vicissitude’ and Read ‘in’ to Read ‘terpsichorean’ “. The resulting scores are age related and described as anything from “deficient“ to “ very superior “. If a candidate is deficient within his/her age norm, he/she MIGHT be dyslexic.
Chris scored positive in six out of the ten indicators in the Bangor test which would normally mean to the experienced teacher that further testing, usually by an educational psychologist, was necessary. Roger Myerscough, having just left college, was not an experienced tester; nor was he familiar with any of his pupils. And again, this School did not enjoy the services of a dedicated SENCO. Roger reported the case of Chris Falconer to the forty year old Maths teacher, Danny O’Neil, who did report the case to the office of the City’s chief Ed. Psych. who, in turn, did nothing about it. It is more than possible that the latter, knowing that Chris had started Year 10, felt that nothing could be done in the short time left. The fact that nothing was done or, more importantly, had been done was to prove, in Professor Miles’s own word, “calamitous” for Chris Falconer.
An extremely naive mistake was made by Roger Myerscough when he told Chris his results on the dyslexia test within earshot of two of his classmates. To make matters worse he used words and phrases like “dyslexia”, “educational psychologist” and “intelligence test” (as in “NOT an intelligence test”).
The news spread like wildfire.
“Falconer’s a thicko” followed him everywhere. Even when he made mistakes or found difficulties that had been typical and quite acceptable coming from Chris Falconer, they were now accompanied by undercurrents of “thicko, thicko”.
Yasmin and he split up.
Chris’s self-esteem plummeted every day until it reached its nadir in May 2001. Chris’s frustrations burst forth.
Years 10 and 11 pupils were standing in the “dinner queue”; Chris was at the menu board, a couple of metres from the serving hatch. Richard Pennington, a big ugly Year 11 bruiser was with two equally unpleasant Asian boys, directly behind Chris. Pennington tapped Chris on the shoulder. Chris turned round; Pennington pointed to an item on the menu.
“Hey, Thicko. That says ‘Sausage and chips’, in case you can’t read it.”
His companions roared with laughter. Chris’s already seething anger erupted. With all his pent-up anger and ferocity, he plunged his fork under Pennington’s ribs.
Success at last!
Pennington sustained a punctured lung and Chris was arrested and questioned by police.
A couple of months later Chris was issued an ASBO in the County Court in Preston. In the build-up to the court case during which Chris attended School on remand, the whispers and murmurings were muted. After the ASBO was issued, they stopped altogether.
More success!
Chris’s self-esteem had burgeoned; he was a force to be reckoned with. He became known in town.
He had succeeded at failing.
There was no male role model at home and none at school. Mrs. Falconer was better off financially on her own so father had drifted away. Chris’s teachers were stifled in layers of bureaucracy where conformity was rewarded. No-one was prepared to take after-school clubs (like drama, photography, music, sport etc) or out-of-school activities (like foreign exchanges and camps) where old-fashioned teachers worth their salt could care for children (tend to their wounds or offer a shoulder to cry on) and be role models without possibly being accused of paedophilia. The Health/Safety/Confidentiality culture ruled while Chris Falconer and millions of others lost out.