Beyond All Evil: Two monsters, two mothers, a love that will last forever

‘You’ve put them in your bag, love.’

‘I know. I have to have them,’ I said, walking to the door of the shop. I could hear Michelle’s laugh, see her face and imagine her pulling on the shoes. Running to the mirror. My beautiful, damaged daughter with the body of a woman and the mind of a child.

Outside the shop. Assailed by the winter cold. Then a new voice, harsh, authoritative.

‘Madam! I have reason to believe you have goods you have not paid for. Would you open your bag?’

I do what he asks. He fingers the shoes.

‘You can’t have them! They’re for Michelle!’ I tell him.

‘You’ll have to come with me!’

I follow. Everyone is looking, shocked expressions, judging faces. They don’t understand. Tears prick my eyes. The spell of the shoes is broken. I can see the man’s face clearly now.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I deserve to be punished. I took the shoes. I had to have them. Can I pay for them, now?’

His face tells me what I already know.

‘I have money,’ I add, showing him my purse containing £160.

In my mind, I try to tell him I couldn’t go to the cash desk. They would have recognised me. They know my daughter is dead. They would have told me Michelle was gone. I was suddenly cold. I wanted to go home.

A policeman and policewoman had arrived. I recognised the woman from the days following the murder of my son and daughter. She spoke quietly to her colleague, who then had a hushed conversation with the store detective.

‘Come with us, June,’ said the policeman.

His voice was not unkind. The fairy shoes were gone. They had taken them from me.

It was cold on the car journey to the police station. We passed beneath blurred neon signs that gave only the appearance of warmth. The police station was as brightly lit as the store had been but it was stark, devoid of decoration. I stood before the imposing figure of the desk officer.

How did I get here? How did I get to this?

The big man looked at me. He was conflicted. I was ostensibly a thief, but a very different kind of thief from those he usually dealt with.

‘Time you went home, Mrs Thomson,’ he said.

I walked away, my face burning with shame.

Now I was at home, sitting in the dark, the illumination of the street lights washing the mantelpiece and the framed photographs of Ryan and my Michelle. I cried.

What on earth had I wanted with fairy shoes?

Giselle: I know why! The same reason I buy toys for my babies.

They lie before me on the cold, hard ground, frozen to the earth in their packaging, these gifts that I have chosen so carefully for my sons. Spiderman for Paul; Bob the Builder for little Jay-Jay. Toys that will never be played with by boys who will never grow up.

As the seasons come and go, the colour of the packaging fades, the boxes disintegrate. My babies know they are there. Michelle would have known, too, about the glittery new shoes.

I never miss a Christmas, or a birthday. Wherever they are, they all know – Paul and Jay-Jay, Michelle and Ryan. They know. That knowledge keeps us going.

There were days when I prayed for death to take me to them. I hated the winter nights and the coming of darkness when they locked the gates of the cemetery and I had to leave my boys. I would go home and ask God to allow me to be with them. But morning inevitably came and I was still here. Part of me was glad. It allowed me to resume my vigil.

So I sit here on the hill, where my sons rest, embraced in each other’s arms beneath two marble teddy bears. And so it will go on, as long as I have breath. On a clear day, I can see in the distance the prison where their killer was taken – their father.

On the day they were laid to rest, I knew he was there – but there was no communication, no word of remorse, no flowers for his dead sons. I still do not know if, to this day, he knows where they lie. It is of no consequence to me. As long as I know, as long as I am close to them, keeping them safe in death as I could not do in life.

I am the sentinel.

I have only been absent on a few days. Those were the days when I tried to end it all. Now I will never miss a day. I have stopped trying to kill myself with cuts to my wrist, pills swallowed by the handful. I have come to realise that suicide should not be my destiny.

People know where to find me. I am surrounded by the thousands who passed away long before my babies. I embrace myself against the cold. I bake in the sunshine. I lower my head against the rain. The doctors tell me I torture myself, perpetuate my anguish. They don’t understand.

I watch for signs from my sons – the wind that drives the windmills on their grave speaks to me in their voices. The marble teddy bears watch me with unblinking eyes. Gold-leaf inscriptions on their bodies record the names of my sons. Spring, summer, autumn and winter, flowers decorate the resting place.

When my babies were first placed there, I wanted to climb in beside them. Now this graveside is my sanctuary. When I arrive each morning I tell them my news, such as it is. They know I am here and what I bring – the small, bright pebbles, the toys, the gifts to place beside them.

Before I leave I repeat the words I had inscribed on the teddy bears. To Paul: ‘Goodnight my little angel, love Mummy xx.’ To Jay-Jay: ‘Goodnight my precious baby, love Mummy xx.’

I want them to know that Mummy is with them and that she loves them. When they had needed me most, on the day the monster took them from me, I had not been there.

My babies, if only I had known, I would have thrown myself in front of his knife, offering my life for yours. I promise I would have saved you. But I didn’t know, my babies, I didn’t know.

If only I had, if only …

Chapter 1

Beginnings

‘They would become the perfect prey for the perfect predators’

Ian Stephen, MA, Dip Ed, Dip Ed Psych, clinical and forensic psychologist

June: Did you ever doubt if you were loved? I did. I remember that cold feeling, as if it were yesterday …

Dad was in the kitchen. He was at the cooker. Something was wrong. Why was he making the dinner? Where was mum?

‘Dad?’ I asked.

He didn’t respond.

Something definitely wasn’t right. This tall, strong man at the heart of my life lit up whenever he saw any of his five children. No matter what drama was being enacted in our household, Dad could always be relied on to comfort us with his strong arms and soothe away our troubles in a gentle voice.

But he was silent and I was suddenly afraid. I couldn’t see his face, couldn’t read his eyes, but I knew even by the set of his shoulders that he was burdened by an ineffable sadness.

I had barged in through the door, trailing early evening air and winter cold into the warm kitchen. I was elated. Teenage hormones and the adrenalin rush created by sprinting from school had made me feel quite giddy.

All the way home, my thoughts had danced with the delights of lipstick, boys and David Cassidy. I was madly in love with the American teen heartthrob – heaven forbid, it was the Seventies after all – and all I wanted to do was play my one and only record on the precious stereo Dad had given me for my birthday.