The Lost Boy - Chapter 6 – part one - Greyfriars

As I mentioned at the end of Chapter 5, I’d met a girl. And somehow, somewhen, I ended up living in Northampton.

We’d spent so much time chatting online that it became its own little world. Back then, MSN Messenger was our meeting place — and the excitement it gave me was electric. I don’t recall the notification that would show when a new message came through, but I do remember the names of people online and the ones offline being underneath and separate, and I do remember the excitement of logging in and seeing her name in the list above!!

There was a strange comfort to it — that little rectangle on a screen becoming the doorway to connection. I’d wait for her to type back, and I’m not sure, but I think MSN would show “so-and-so is typing” at the bottom of the chat window. Sometimes it was light, flirty back-and-forth. Sometimes it was deeper, about where we’d been in life, what we wanted next. The fact she had a job and a two-year-old son meant her time was limited, but I’d take whatever I could get. Every conversation felt like a thread being pulled tighter between us, one late-night message at a time.

Eventually, the talk turned into plans, and the plans turned into me booking a coach to Northampton.

I can still remember that journey: the low hum of the engine, my legs bouncing, and my reflection in the window — not because I was vain, but because I was nervous. At the time, I was missing one of my front teeth from that fight I spoke about earlier — the one where my brother got arrested.

And as I write this now, I’ve just remembered the day after it happened. I went out looking for my tooth — or any clue at all about what had gone on. I’d told myself I’d probably fallen and hit my mouth on a curb, knocking the tooth clean through my lip and ripping it out root and all. I went searching along the street, scanning the ground like I might just spot it lying there, but of course I never found it. The truth of how it came out was as missing as the tooth itself.

Smiling had since become an art form, my top lip curling over just enough to hide the gap, or my hand casually covering my mouth when I laughed.

Aside from that, I felt alright about my appearance. I’d dropped a lot of weight from my heaviest days — some of it thanks to that last speed binge, which left me slim but not exactly healthy.

And writing this now, another speed binge comes to mind — not that one, but one all the way back to after prison. I won’t go into the full details, but there was a whole part of that chapter with its own speed-fuelled side story. I was sponging off whoever I could, and when I could, I’d fund it myself. Speed was cheap and had real bang-for-buck value, and some people were more than happy to share. It was a blur of wired nights, buzzing conversations, and the gnawing edge of come-downs, all stitched into that period of my life like its own messy subplot. Still, by the time I got on that coach to Northampton, I’d left that one behind.

When the coach rolled into Northampton, the first thing I noticed was this massive, ugly brick building — Greyfriars. I didn’t remember the name at the time, but I had to look it up, and when I saw the name and the picture of the building online, the memory became even clearer. I hung back while the pushy ones got their stuff from the undercarriage first, watching them yank at bags and drag cases onto the pavement. The smell of exhaust fumes mixed with cigarette smoke hung in the air, sharp and heavy, clinging to the back of my throat.

I stood there for a moment, bag finally in hand, not quite sure which way to turn. People hurried past with the kind of focus that makes you feel like the only one without a destination. I remember scanning the faces, my mind flicking between excitement and a gnawing self-consciousness about my missing tooth. And then — as if someone had skipped a scene — I was sat in her car.

The plan was to spend a couple of days with her, then head to my dad’s for a bit, and then back to hers before returning home to Southampton. But even in those first hours, I sensed a shift. She was polite, friendly — but distant. At some point, she suggested I either head to my dad’s earlier or stay there longer. Whether it was nerves, second thoughts, or just not feeling the spark, I couldn’t say at the time. But it felt off. She’d later confess that she thought I looked weird. Not ugly, not physically unattractive — at least I don’t think — but I got the gist she meant the nerves I carried made me look off, awkward, and that in turn had put her off.

That feeling must have been worked through somehow, because this Northampton chapter would end up lasting around two years. I did spend some time with my dad that trip — or at least, I know I must have.

It’s strange though, because I can’t pull that visit back at all. I know I ended up living with Dad for a bit before living with this girl, so that discussion must have happened — or at least been approached — somewhere around here. I remember little bits and bobs from that time, but not seeing him on that particular visit. It’s an odd feeling, almost like the absence in my memory is heavier than the presence would have been.

The last clear memory I have of speaking to Dad before all this was years earlier, maybe when I was about sixteen. I’d been drinking, and I was on the phone — my brother might have been there, or my sister-in-law, my eldest brother’s wife. I’m pretty sure I was at my brother’s in-laws’ house when it happened. Dad was trying to tell me what I shouldn’t do, and I gave him a short, sharp “fuck off,” something about him not getting that privilege after being absent for years. I remember him going quiet — shutting up, or maybe shutting down. And I’ve noticed he’s never really tried to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do since. Instead, he makes suggestions, and I respect him for that.

I’m not sure how this led to me living there fully. I don’t know how long I went to Southampton for before returning — or even if I did. I don’t remember the conversations around me deciding to stay, and for some reason there’s a real pattern to that. Rarely a clear memory of those huge moments that shaped my life, as if they were just another day for a lost boy running from one place to another.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 5 – part four- Internet Addiction!

Now, it may be a bit extreme to call this an addiction, but in terms of escape — it served the same purpose. The moment I sat in front of that screen, I was away. Mentally gone. Somewhere else entirely. And in that world, I was able to present a version of myself I liked.

I’m not saying I wasn’t myself — but I could certainly hide the bits I didn’t like so much from the ones I chatted to online.

It started with chat rooms. Endless ones. Different platforms, usernames, conversations. The attention felt good. The disconnection from real life felt even better. I became someone else — or rather, a filtered version of myself. Sharper. Wittier. More confident. The kind of person I wished I could be face-to-face.

And then came online porn. That, too, took hold. The more time I spent scrolling and scouring, the more absurd the searches became. It’s not the biggest part of this chapter, but it deserves mention. It was part of the spiral. A different kind of hit. A private escape.

Maybe someone reading this will relate. Maybe it’s just something I need to get off my chest. Probably both.

But either way — this was another phase of escape. Another attempt to lose myself.

As with the speed, this ran parallel with that whole section. I’d spend time online, time getting high, time socialising. As one would decrease, the other would take over. And that happened in a particular order — first the friends and partying, then the speed days, and then merging into internet life.

And it wouldn’t be long before the online world led to something more real… or at least something that felt like it. Connections with real people. Or people I thought were real. They weren’t always.

I hadn’t heard the term "catfish" until years later — but that definitely happened to me. Maybe more than once.

There were a few online relationships I formed that meant something to me. One was with this girl, Claire. Looking back, that wasn’t her name. Chances are she wasn’t even a woman — but I don’t know. What I do know is I spent hours chatting to her.

We met in a chat room but moved to MSN. Ha — MSN! That’s funny thinking back.

She told me she lived in London, had two kids, and relationship issues with her mum. She smoked weed. That was an instant connection that I liked. I would get so excited about speaking with her — sharing our days, experiences, what shit was going on, and of course getting to know one another. It never seemed to end.

I really liked her. So much.

But one day she just disappeared. I’d tried to speak to her on webcam, but she always hid — even if she did put the camera on. I think the most I ever saw was a poor-quality image of a hand holding a joint — that would disappear and reappear, burning a bit brighter each time.

I was so hurt when she left. Devastated. I searched and scoured for her all over the place — every chat room I thought I might find her in. It took me so long to accept that loss.

Crazy, isn’t it?

But it was so real to me.

There was another one I met, and we got on well. She stood me up the first time we were supposed to meet. I was so fucked off — but not enough to stop chatting and try again. We met the second time. I travelled to her, she met me, and I went and stayed at hers for a couple of days.

I remember going to Asda, and her buying some bits for me to cook us dinner. Nothing special — pasta with some jar sauce. I thought that was great though. How embarrassing looking back. She seemed happy enough. She had two kids.

I’m not sure how many times we met, but we were seeing each other for a bit. I don’t even know how that ended — but it did. She ended up with one of my friends, which I found strange but didn’t really think too deeply about.

And then there was the one I moved away to live with.

It didn’t quite go like that, mind you!

This one was lush. The chats we had were like the ones with Claire — that same excitement. I remember meeting this one in a chat room. I’m pretty sure she spoke to me first, which was so rare for chat rooms — it was normally the lads chasing hard!

She commented on my username: drunkenmonkey06. She said it was funny. I don’t remember the rest of the conversation, but I do remember receiving the first picture from her. I can still see that picture vividly. And how self-conscious she was about sending it.

We chatted for some time, and eventually I arranged to go and meet her. I got the coach up to the Midlands, and she happened to live near where my dad lived. On this visit, I managed to tie in a visit with my dad. We’d arranged that before I went — I’d spend a day or two with her, then with Dad, before either going back to hers or heading back down south. I’m sure it was the former, but I can’t be 100% sure.

That is actually the end of this chapter. Somewhere around here — and as is common in this story — the details around the change are very blurry. In fact, I don’t remember.

I’m not sure if I returned down south this time or not. I just know that my next strong memory — and certainly my next chapter — begins in my head directly after here.

So for now, I’ll leave it here.

The end of Southampton — and how that end came about.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 5 – part three - Speed Addiction!

This is where it began to spiral again — but in a new direction, with an old friend. Speed. Bass. Amphetamine.

I’d befriended a woman. Older than me. She had her own speed habit — full-blown — and with her came a supply. That was all it took.

From then on, things got wired. Fast.

She was seeing a friend — well, more of a friend’s brother at the time. She was in her late 30s, I think, but I’m not sure. Definitely an older woman. Much older than I was at the time.  We did get on well, and when I saw the access to drugs, we certainly got on better. There wasn’t anything romantic or sexual. Well, except for one incident — that was really just an incident. Something small happened, but it wasn’t for me. I didn’t like older women, and made that clear.

Bomb after bomb of bass. that’s how we took it, that’s stinky paste, wrapped in a rizla and swallowed with a drink. This was an odd time for me, with new behaviours stepping deeper into old ones. A bit less attractive — not that any of the behaviours were attractive.

Charity bin raiding became a regular thing. Looking for anything — clothes, forgotten treasures. I don’t know what we were doing, but it was quite fun, I’m not going to lie. As wrong as it might have been. We’d get back with our hoard, high as fuck, going through it like we’d struck gold! One man’s rubbish is another man’s treasure — certainly held some truth.

We found a desk and chair once. I remember stripping that back — taking it all apart, sanding it down and painting it. Reupholstering the chair and painting my daughter's name on it. That would be one of her gifts for Christmas that year. I know it sounds fucked up, but I was trying — and even in that mess, there were still some good intentions.

We would also sit up making dreamcatchers. I think quite a few people got one off me that year! Haha — it’s quite funny looking back. I really enjoyed it. I was high as fuck, in the zone, creating shit from junk. We would use lampshades — well, the metal ring from the top or bottom of the shade — and then wrap material around it. Using string or thread of some sort, we’d make the web, adding beads here and there. Then finishing it with various bits depending on the colour and the drug-induced ideas! They actually looked pretty good.

I met some interesting people around this time. Some wild characters. I remember one woman eating speed off a spoon like cereal. It shocked me at first, but soon — nothing really did. That was just life.

I didn’t sleep for days. Days turned into nights and back again, with no rest in between. I started hallucinating from the sleep deprivation — seeing shadows that weren’t there, feeling things crawl on my skin. I can’t remember it all, but they were very real at the time. I wasn’t scared though. I almost waited for them to start with excitement and anticipation. Like when that happened, I’d hit the real high! And being around like-minded people — or at least a like-minded person — there was no fear in sharing whatever crazy shit was being felt, seen or experienced. It was pretty wild. And definitely insane.

I wasn’t eating properly, so the weight stayed off. Ironically, this made me feel good about myself. As twisted as that is, I liked being lighter. I liked how running had started me off — but speed kept it going.

I’d binge for a few days — more if I could stretch it — then crash back at Mum’s to recover. Then once I’d rested just enough, I was off again.

This all ran alongside some of the time I was still hanging with my brother and his friends. It overlapped. Some weekends I was playing football with them. Other days I was sat in the dark, hiding the craziness from the world — but more to keep it to myself like it was a treat I didn’t want to share, than to protect the world or me. Jaw swinging. Mind racing. Trying to remember when I last ate or showered.

The rest at Mum’s after days of that was great. Getting cleaned up and sleeping for however long it took to feel normal again. I’d try to convince myself I would stay away from there as it wasn’t good for me, but I knew I was lying to myself. I’d rest, recover, chill with normal people, then go back after a few days. It was a very strange place I chose — but it was the escape I was choosing. I don’t really know now what from. Myself, maybe. Whenever I was completely off my nut, I didn’t worry about fixing myself at all. I guess that was partly behind every time I was in the height of addiction — no matter the substance. It was about relief from that constant feeling of not being as good as I should or could be.

I met some great people and some fucking weirdos along the way. And I was also probably viewed in the same light — sometimes great, other times a weirdo, I mean. Even at my worst, I still had real friendships in every group I moved through. I still speak to some of them now. But those friendships were woven into chaos — wrapped up in addiction, escape, and blurred boundaries. I think some of those connections pitied me a bit. Looked on and felt sorry for me — and probably were worried for me in some ways.

This was the speed chapter. A fast and fraying thread in the wider mess. And I was about to find a way out for a period of time. Another up-sticks-and-run moment that Gareth’s life already bore the pattern of.

Next was internet chat rooms, being drawn into online relationships — and then finding the one I chose to cling onto next. I guess we could call it the discovery of the internet… and how that led to the next chapter...

The Lost Boy - Chapter 5 – part two- Where There’s a Will There’s a Way

Spending time with my younger brother and his mates became the norm. I was 21, maybe 22. They were all 16 to 18. A strange dynamic on paper, but it worked. Maybe it was because we were all just looking for connection — a sense of belonging that didn’t care much for age or stage of life. I didn’t carry myself like an older, wiser role model — far from it. I slotted in more like one of them than someone above them. We laughed at the same things, smoked the same weed, listened to the same music. In many ways, I was looking to escape adulthood, and they were still clinging to the last moments of youth. Somewhere in the middle, we met — and for a time, it made perfect sense.

I never really saw the age difference as an issue — but why would I? It’s not like I was a very mature young adult, and their young, free lifestyles suited what I wanted for sure. It was just time with them.

My brother’s best friend’s mum had been close with my mum for years. We used to spend a lot of time round there, and I’d bum smokes off his mum. But again, it was more than that. We were all friends. Family friends. I’m still very close with some of that family now and will be for as long as I can see ahead. They’re certainly part of my extended family now.

Back to the group of friends though — we would have regular gatherings, sometimes drink-fuelled and a lot of the time not. We were a good social group and all got on really well. I have a lot of time for them all now as I did then, but life has just led us all in our own directions. However, when we meet or talk, there is still a heartfelt connection — on my part at least.

We partied. Drank when we could. Smoked weed or hash when it was around. Mostly just bummed about off friends and friends of friends — wherever the opportunity was.

There were themed nights — I remember a toga party, a "pimps and hoes" party, and being caught with one of our friends somewhere I shouldn’t have been, doing something we shouldn't have been. Especially being as she was with someone!

It wasn’t all madness though. There were quiet moments too — dossing about, playing football. I remember the long walks. Usually to a field for a kickabout or off to try and score some weed.

Computer games. Blazing. Laughing. Killing time.

Nothing too productive, but nothing too destructive either. Not yet.

But all through this point I realise now — where there's a will, there's a way. As much as the addiction wasn't massively evident in this part of the journey, it was never gone…

These memories are definitely blurred across different timelines and ages, but I add them where they sit in my mind. So if you’re reading this and you were there and I’m off — forgive me. I’m doing my best after years of drug abuse and memory battering, and also trying to block out sections I’d rather forget. Somehow my memory stepped in and took over — choosing which parts it would keep, where and why. I don’t know. Like I said earlier, it’s not that important. Just getting this out there as I remember it is what matters. Writing it down helps me make sense of it — like I’m piecing together a puzzle I didn’t realise was still in bits. Maybe someone will read this and see their own story reflected back. Maybe it helps someone feel less alone in their own chaos. But even if it doesn’t, it helps me — and that has to count for something.

During this time, I have a memory that stands out and definitely deserves a mention — one of those vivid memories that needs sharing.

I woke up and was more than fuzzy. I wasn’t even sure where I was. After a short time, I realised I was at Mum’s. This is where I realise the memories are mixed and hazy — because all throughout sharing this chapter, I’m between two houses Mum lived in, and that must be through the confusion of timelines.

Anyway — I managed to peel myself from the bed and felt more than rough. I was in pain. My face felt sore, as did my hand, and everything in between. I got up and looked in the mirror and what looked back took my breath away — but made me laugh hard.

I wasn’t laughing for long.

I looked in the mirror and saw these eyes looking back through a face that looked more than odd. My face was covered almost completely in dry blood — all cracked and crazed like an old painting up close. You know what I mean? Well, I laughed out loud. It wasn’t even fucking funny — or shouldn’t have been — but I was still half-cut.

As soon as I laughed, I saw it. The missing tooth! I covered my mouth with my hand quicker than I could think. And after repeating taking it away and putting it back up, I finally left it down long enough to actually take a proper look.

I cried. Not ashamed to admit it.

My tooth was fucking gone. And my lip was fat. On closer inspection, I could see the tooth had gone through my lip — entrance and exit hole — and the tooth all gone. I didn’t know it at this point, but the whole root had been ripped out. And my hand? Turned out to be broken too.

And that’s not where this memory stops…

I went through to Mum and showed her the aftermath of whatever the fuck had happened the night before. I remember seeing her shock at what she was looking at, and her asking again and again what the fuck had happened.

I couldn’t answer. I had no idea.

I think this conversation and attempt at remembering went on for a while. Within that, I was asked where Munch was — that’s my younger brother. I didn’t know initially. Then I had flashes of the night before.

We had been at a friend’s, drinking heavily. Started off fun, but then we left — and the air hit us, and so did all the vodka.

I — in typical drunk Gareth mode — started on some people we passed, for no reason whatsoever. I remember that much.

Then the police arrived.

I wasn’t so drunk that I didn’t know what that could mean. And in turn, it meant I had to shut the fuck up and behave — so I did. But then my brother took off with a madness. Whilst the police were there.

I tried to warn him. I tried to calm him down. The police gave ample warning before arresting him. It was too late for him, but not for me. I just kept quiet now. Watched them cart him off, and went on my way. That is my last memory of that night.

I have since spoken to someone years later who is pretty sure — when we discussed that event — he stumbled across some guy kicking me in just round the corner from where my brother was arrested. So, no real clarity… but everything pointing towards the obvious: that I’d gotten myself into some sort of fight or altercation after my brother was arrested — and likely took a heavy kicking not long after. That would explain the missing tooth, the busted hand, and the bloody mess I woke up to. It all added up, even if the memory itself never fully returned.

Resulting in a broken hand, loss of tooth, and knowing for sure — my brother was arrested. what happened after im not sure. I don't remember but we did laugh about this after that's for sure!

I’ve got loads of other memories from this time, but they’re all scattered — fragments, really. Snippets of moments, blurred scenes that all carry the same feeling. The same mess. The same Gareth — chaos either following me, or being created by me. Maybe both.

Whichever way it happened, it was real.

The next part of the story runs closely alongside this one — overlapping timelines, familiar faces — but it marks the final decline before, once again, I packed up and moved away.

I’ll save that for then…

The Lost Boy - Chapter 5 – part one- Returning to the UK

I don’t remember much about the journey itself. Again!

I just know I came back heavier than I’d ever been — about 18 stone.

I hated being heavy.

I didn’t realise how bad it had got until the weight started falling off.

It crept up on me, one pub session, one takeout, one late-night binge at a time.

I’d convinced myself it didn’t matter — that because I worked hard, I’d earned it.

Hard graft, hard life, hard body — that was the trade-off, right?

But the scales didn’t lie.

I still remember stepping on them not long before leaving Ireland.

The number staring back at me like it was screaming: Wake the fuck up.

Eighteen stone.

I looked at that screen — felt the shame flush through me — and then just… walked away.

Did nothing with it.

Because by then, I didn’t have the strength to face the truth.

And maybe that was part of it too.

When everything else is spiralling — your relationship, your money, your self-respect —

what’s one more thing out of control?

Life in Ireland had stripped me of so much, and now here I was, back in Southampton.

At first, it felt like I was trying to find my footing again — and for a short time, I did.

There was a routine that began to form: breakfast, a run, a nap, lunch, another rest, and eventually dinner.

I'd occasionally socialise with some of my younger brother's friends — all a few years younger than me, but who welcomed me in as one of them.

But the truth is, even that structure wasn’t really chosen.

I had no job. No income besides dole money, which didn’t go far.

And while I paid Mum what she asked towards living costs, it wasn’t much — but even that left me with hardly anything. I was backed into a corner.

I couldn’t be eating Mum out of house and home, and I had no way of buying much for myself.

So I cut back on food, out of necessity. And I ran, not from some great desire to get fit — but because it was free. It filled time.

I had nothing else to do.

Everyone else seemed to have somewhere to be. Jobs. School. College.

I didn’t even know many of the other jobless people.

And as for work — I didn’t go back to plastering or rendering for years.

That life was behind me, for now.

The lack of food, the movement, and the absence of alcohol or drugs — which I simply couldn’t afford — meant I began to shed weight. Slowly at first, but it came off.

I got down to about 13 and a half stone.

Mentally, I started to feel a little clearer too.

When I lost the weight, I felt great.

For the first time in a long time, I actually liked what I saw in the mirror.

Not loved — not yet — but liked.

And that was a start.

I didn’t feel invisible anymore.

Didn’t feel like the fat failure everyone expected me to be.

I felt sharp. Cleaner. Leaner. In some ways, stronger.

And I loved running.

At first, it was fucking brutal — try throwing an extra fuck-knows-how-many-kilos on your back and running three miles a day. At least.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t even smart.

But it was all I had.

My knees screamed at me to stop. Every impact sent jolts through my legs. My lungs felt like they were folding in on themselves.

I even nearly threw up a couple of times.

But I kept going.

There was something in that pain that felt right.

Like it was burning something off — not just fat, but regret. Shame. Anger.

I think a part of me hoped the punishment would count for something.

That maybe if I ran hard enough, far enough, long enough… I'd outrun the past.

Of course, it doesn’t work like that.

But for a while, it felt like it might.

But it didn’t last long.

I don’t remember much of my daughter around this time.

But I do remember the phone calls.

Coins clutched in my palm, queuing for a public phone box.

Waiting for that brief window to hear her voice.

And the call coming to an end due to the omen running out!

Mobile phones weren’t what they are now.

Internet calling wasn’t really a thing yet.

And I had no stable income.

Visits were rare — once or twice a year if that.

All I could offer her then was my voice through a phone line,

and a longing I tried not to let break me.

I remember a couple of heated conversations with her mum in that phone box. Something about money, I’m sure. But not as a means of control on her part, or want — but of need. Need for our daughter.

And all I could ever say was, "When I’ve got a job!"

Even when I did have one, nothing really changed.

It was either I gave her money, or I came to see Alisha. I couldn’t do both and live — or so I said.

Looking back, if I didn’t drink or use — whichever or both — I could have sent something.

But I wasn’t ever willing to make that sacrifice, was I?

There was grounding in some ways — Mum’s home, the familiarity of my brothers, and the early quiet mornings where I felt like I was putting myself back together.

Mum never asked too many questions.

Maybe she didn’t want to know, or maybe she already did.

We had this silent agreement — she gave me space, I gave her the bare minimum.

There was love, but it was tired love. Love that had carried me one too many times.

We got on well, but I was a proper little twat — would shout and scream if I didn’t get my own way.

I guess Mum was a victim of mine now as much as I was of hers when I was a child.

I’ve never really looked at it like that until now, writing this.

A bit of balance maybe.

Still never right!

I was a bully in many ways and I see that now.

And Mum — I am sorry.

The truth is, the stillness was only temporary.

That brief chapter of structure, however well-intentioned or accidental, couldn’t hold back the storm that was already brewing.

The drinking and drug use — the chaos of addiction, which I didn’t even recognise as addiction at the time — began creeping back in.

It wasn’t immediate, but it built.

First the socialising, then the slipping.

Soon, I’d find myself right back in it.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 4 – part four - The Breaking of The Illusion

Well… it ended.

The relationship.

The living together.

The illusion of being a family.

It was never real — not really.

More like a patchwork of duty, guilt, and survival.

A pretend family unit playing make-believe,

trying to act out a script we never believed in.

My daughter’s mum…

she must have known.

Maybe our daughter was two.

Maybe three or four.

I could try to figure it out, sit down and work it all out on a timeline —

but honestly, it doesn’t matter.

Because the when doesn’t change the why.

And it doesn’t soften the what.

Like so much of my life back then,

dates blur, details slip.

But the weight of it?

That remains sharp.

This was the part where the seams finally split.

Where we could no longer pretend.

Where the cracks became chasms and the silence… unbearable.

I don’t remember exactly what led to the end.

The final moment when “us” as a family —

living under one roof — just… ended.

But if I had to guess?

If I go by the patterns I’ve repeated since,

the way I’ve pulled back when closeness felt too close,

or sabotaged things when they felt steady…

Then yeah — I probably left. I might not have though!

But if i did it was not because I’d outgrown it.

Not because it was unbearable.

But because I thought the grass might be greener.

Or maybe because if I ended it first,

I wouldn’t have to face being the one left behind.

Control.

Or at least the illusion of it.

That’s what I was grasping for.

That tug-of-war inside me —

between “stay and make it work” and “run before it breaks” —

it had been going on a long time.

And I think back then, I didn’t know how else to live.

Even in love — or what I thought was love —

there was this constant push-pull.

I’m in, I’m out.

I want you, I don’t.

I’m leaving. No wait… I can’t.

Games, maybe.

Cat and mouse, definitely.

But they weren’t designed to hurt — not consciously.

They were just the byproduct of a broken internal compass.

Of a boy trying to become a man

without the tools, without the map,

without a bloody clue.

I wasn’t trying to manipulate.

Not in the way people think of when they hear that word.

It wasn’t cunning.

It was chaos.

I didn’t know what I was doing.

Didn’t know how to make decisions and stand in them.

Didn’t know how to love without losing myself —

or how to be alone without falling apart.

So I danced between both.

And the damage that did…

well, that’s something I still carry.

And maybe she does too.

After I left, I moved in with an electrician.

We weren’t close, not really — but we got on.

He had a room going in his apartment, and I needed space.

Space from her.

Space from being a dad.

Space from the guilt I hadn’t yet named, but was already sinking me.

Living there didn’t last long.

Not because of him.

But because of me.

Because of what I was running from… and toward.

I remember that first week —

I arrived with bags full of shit I didn’t need.

Literal stuff.

Old clothes, broken things, bits and pieces of a life I didn’t want anymore.

So we did something wild.

We loaded it all into his van,

drove to the top of a hill —

and set fire to it.

Of all places… a hill.

As if I was trying to offer my past to the wind and watch it disappear.

He had a jerry can of petrol.

We soaked the pile.

My belongings.

My history.

My mess.

Then I hesitated.

Just for a second —

a breath —

before lighting the match.

That second?

I regretted it.

Because the fumes had gathered.

And the moment the flame dropped —

boom.

A fireball.

A cinematic, full-body ignition.

I felt the heat slam into me like a warning.

It roared.

And for a second, I was inside it.

Engulfed.

It could’ve gone so wrong.

Burned me alive.

Taken more than just the pile.

But it didn’t.

It just left me… singed.

Shaken.

And marked by something I didn’t yet understand.

Looking back now, I see the symbolism.

I thought I was letting go.

Burning away what wasn’t mine to carry anymore.

But that fire didn’t release it.

It fused it to me.

Like scar tissue.

Like smoke in my lungs I couldn’t cough out.

Like some part of my past watched the flames rise and thought:

“We’re not done with you yet.”

And it followed me.

Through every move.

Every relationship.

Every night I told myself I was changing — and wasn’t.

Because fire can’t cleanse what shame refuses to let go of.

And I was still carrying it all —

ash and all.

But that fire didn’t end it.

Not the guilt.

Not the pull.

Not the madness.

Because just like that pile of shit I tried to burn away,

I wasn’t done with her either.

And the truth?

She wasn’t mine to be “done with.”

But I didn’t see it that way.

She’d started letting her hair down again —

literally.

After years of being under my control,

years of surviving the Gareth tornado,

she was finally going out again.

Being herself again.

And I couldn’t handle it.

I wasn’t with her anymore.

Didn’t want to be with her, either —

not really.

But fuck me, if someone else touched her?

No chance.

It was twisted.

Possessive.

Rage-filled.

She was finally finding some freedom,

and I was trying to chase it down like a hunter stalking prey.

The stories started surfacing.

She’d been seen out.

Laughing.

With other guys.

One name came up more than once.

And just like that —

I was on a mission.

A manhunt.

Asking around.

Trying to find him.

Trying to figure out who he was, what he looked like.

What would I have done if I found him?

I honestly don’t know.

I tell myself I wouldn’t have hurt him —

but truthfully?

I don’t know.

Because in those days,

my rage had no map.

No plan.

Just a spark and a direction.

And I was drunk most of the time —

high half the time —

angry all of the time.

And I didn’t know how to sit with loss without trying to dominate it.

Later, she told me the full story.

I had found him once.

Walked right up to him.

And he’d denied being who he was.

Flat-out denied it.

She said he laughed telling her about it afterwards.

Took the piss.

She laughed too —

but not at me.

At him.

Because she knew what I was capable of,

and he didn’t.

She told him he was lucky.

Lucky he lied.

Lucky I didn’t see through it.

And I guess he was.

Because even if I wasn’t looking for a fight…

I was still fire with legs.

And when I drank?

I was dangerous.

To others.

To myself.

To everything in my orbit.

That chapter with her should’ve been closed —

but there I was,

still trying to write footnotes in the margins.

Still acting like I had a say in who she smiled at,

after all the times I’d made her cry.

That wasn’t love.

That was control.

Jealousy.

Unhealed rage and a wounded ego dressed up as righteousness.

And I see it now.

The story wasn’t over.

Not because there was more love to give —

but because there was more truth to face.

And I still hadn’t looked in the mirror long enough to see it.

The night before I left Ireland, another catastrophic catalyst.

I don’t remember how it began —

just that it ended in a way I’ll never forget.

I’d found her, my daughter’s mum, at her friend’s house.

I knocked. She came out — reluctantly.

I don’t remember what was said.

But I remember what I did.

I threatened her.

And the threat didn’t end with words.

I slapped her.

An open hand. Round the face. Hard.

And I meant it.

It was like time stopped. Then snapped back.

Next thing I remember — I was running.

Running home, drunk, terrified I’d be arrested.

Terrified of myself, really.

What I’d done.

What I’d become.

The memory jumps again —

to the next morning.

I woke with that sick, hollow dread in my chest.

A hazy mind. A shame-filled heart.

Bit by bit, it came back to me.

I’d crossed a line I swore I never would.

I’d never laid a hand on her before —

not like that.

I’d been controlling, abusive, angry — yes.

But not actually hit her.

Until that night.

And I knew — right there and then —

I couldn’t come back from this.

Not as I was.

Not in her life.

Not in my daughter’s.

I called her.

Maybe we met. I’m not sure now.

But I remember the conversation.

And I remember the decision.

“I’m leaving.”

Not as a punishment.

Not as a way out.

But because it was the only right thing to do.

I had to go.

For her.

For our daughter.

For whatever hope I had left of becoming something else.

And I did.

That’s where this part of the story fades.

Everything after that — the move, the return to England — is another chapter.

But what came after still lives in me.

Because even after I left,

she never stopped me from being a dad.

She never held it against me.

Never made it about money.

Never stood in the way.

Despite everything I’d done.

I have nothing but respect for her.

For the mother she was.

For the woman she became.

I may have had a part in our daughter’s life,

but her mother was the one who showed up every single day.

She’s the one who deserves the credit.

I’d visit once or twice a year,

and even after all I’d done —

she put me up.

She opened her door.

Whether that was forced or chosen, I don’t know.

But I know it was grace.

And I’ll never forget it.

That’s where this chapter ends.

Not with resolution.

Not with redemption.

But with the beginning of a reckoning.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 4 – part three - Where The Damage Was Done

This is where it gets harder.

To write.

To share.

To own.

Not because I don’t remember —

but because I do.

Enough of it.

And what I do remember…

hurts.

It hurts me.

But more importantly —

it could hurt others.

I’ve shared about other people in this story —

my parents, my past, people who’ve shaped me —

but this feels different.

Because this isn’t just about being shaped.

This is about where I did the shaping.

Where my actions left marks.

Where my behaviour became someone else’s burden.

And I can’t tell that lightly.

Not now.

Not ever.

This is where my behaviour shifted.

Where I went from a confused boy

to an abusive young man.

It didn’t happen in a flash.

There was no single moment where the switch flipped.

It built.

Slowly.

Quietly.

Until it wasn’t quiet anymore.

As I began to lose control in some parts of my life,

I think I tried to take control wherever I could.

No matter what that meant.

No matter who it hurt.

And there’s another reason this part is harder to write.

It’s not just about me anymore.

It directly involves other people —

people who were affected by me,

who were hurt by my behaviour,

who didn’t ask to be part of this chaos,

but were pulled into it all the same.

Some of those wounds were deep.

Some may still be open.

And as I write, I don’t just carry my memories —

I carry a responsibility to approach this with care,

with respect,

and with gentleness.

This part will be slower.

Because before I speak some of it,

I’ll be reaching out.

Checking in.

Making sure that what I share doesn’t re-open what they’re still trying to close.

Because yes — this is my story.

But it’s also theirs.

And I won’t bulldoze through it just to get to the next page.

That consideration —

the impact on others —

is going to shape how I tell the rest of this story for a while.

And rightly so.

I’m not holding back because I’m scared to face myself.

That part I’ve already done —

and I’ll keep doing it.

But I am holding back to protect others.

To respect their privacy.

To honour their healing.

Because that’s something I didn’t do at the time.

Back then, I bulldozed through feelings,

boundaries,

people.

But now — I want to do this differently.

So this part might be slower.

More careful.

More considered.

Not because the truth isn’t coming…

but because it’s coming with love.

As with so much of this story, there are gaps.

Big ones. Small ones.

Memories that blur or stretch across years —

moments that feel stitched together from different times.

And this is no different.

I don’t remember the moment we moved out of her parents’ house.

Not clearly, anyway.

There’s no vivid memory of packing, or signing a form, or even talking about it.

Just the knowing that somehow, we were somewhere else now.

What I do remember from that time is this:

we were both going out more.

But not together.

Not that I remember.

I don’t know if she was avoiding me —

avoiding the mess I brought when I drank too much,

the arguments, the drama,

the weight of being around someone who still hadn’t grown up.

Maybe her friends didn’t like me.

Maybe they saw something she was still trying to ignore.

Or maybe we were just two people drifting,

trying to live parallel lives under the illusion of one.

I only remember fragments now.

Blurry scenes.

Nights out.

Maybe fights.

A lot of silence.

And maybe that silence is what’s left in my mind —

not because I don’t remember,

but because I’m ashamed to.

I was a teenage boy full of hormones and confusion.

She was a young mother, likely exhausted, trying to hold it all together.

I wanted sex.

She wanted peace.

It’s not that either of us were wrong for how we felt —

but the imbalance between us became another quiet wound.

One neither of us knew how to name.

I hated being rejected.

That’s how I saw it —

every cold shoulder, every turned back, every “not tonight.”

It didn’t matter what she was feeling.

To me, it was rejection.

And the truth is…

it probably was, at least partly.

She probably despised me to some extent.

Felt stuck. Trapped.

Because she was.

And I knew it.

I felt it from her — the resentment, the heaviness,

the way her eyes didn’t light up anymore when I walked in the room.

But here’s the part that hurts to admit:

I didn’t care.

Not really.

Not in the way I should have.

Not enough to stop.

Not enough to ask why.

Not enough to see her pain before I saw my own need.

Back then, it was all about what I felt.

What I wanted.

What I thought I was owed.

And that’s where the damage started.

Not in fists or fights —

but in the selfishness.

The blindness.

The choosing of my own discomfort over her right to just breathe.

I wouldn’t give up at the first no.

I’d try again.

And again.

Pushing my luck past the point of what was acceptable.

I see that now.

Back then, I dressed it up as persistence.

Told myself it was just passion, or desire, or love even.

But it wasn’t.

It was pressure.

It was a refusal to respect boundaries.

To take someone’s no and honour it, instead of twisting it

into a maybe, or a not yet, or a prove you love me.

And this wasn’t a one-off.

This wasn’t something that happened in just that relationship.

It was a pattern.

Something I carried —

into almost every relationship that followed.

I didn’t know how to handle rejection.

So I’d push.

Manipulate.

Try to make them feel guilty.

Try to make myself feel wanted again.

And underneath it all…

was fear.

Fear of not being enough.

Fear of being unwanted.

Fear of abandonment.

But fear isn’t an excuse.

And I need to say that clearly now —

so that no one reading this gets confused:

It wasn’t okay.

Not then.

Not ever.

And I’m not telling it to justify anything.

I’m telling it because it’s true.

Because naming it is part of making sure it ends with me.

But the truth is, that was just part of it.

The pushing, the pressure —

it lived alongside something else.

Anger.

Real, venomous anger.

And not the kind that flares and fizzles.

The kind that simmers.

I’d become controlling.

Accusing.

Suspicious.

Shouting.

Name-calling.

Throwing around labels and insults that didn’t fit —

didn’t belong to her —

but came flying from my own pain, my own shame, my own broken edges.

I belittled her.

I know I did.

Even if I can’t recall every word, I know that energy.

The look on her face.

The way the room felt when I raised my voice.

And it hurts that I can’t remember it all clearly.

Part of me feels like I should.

Like I owe it to her — to all of them —

to remember it all in perfect detail.

To line it up and name every blow, every bruise, every word.

But I can’t.

Some of it is blank.

Merged. Blurred.

Lost in the haze of alcohol, and immaturity, and whatever else I was using to numb myself.

Still… I know this much:

I was angry.

I was controlling.

I was demeaning.

I’m sure I made digs about the house, the mess, the lack of cleaning —

as if that ever mattered more than kindness.

And I know this escalated.

That part I feel in my bones.

Even if I can’t remember every detail,

I know how the slope felt beneath my feet —

slippery, dark, and only going one way.

And all the while…

she was forgotten.

By me.

Maybe by everyone around us.

My daughter’s mum.

Still just a teenager.

Still trying to hold it together.

The mother of my child.

The victim of Gareth’s first truly abusive relationship.

And that’s what it was.

Abuse.

Not just pain.

Not just dysfunction.

Abuse.

And I was the cause.

I don’t know how long we lived there.

A year, maybe. Give or take.

It’s blurry — like a lot of this chapter.

By this point, I was working for someone new.

Still on the tools, but this time it was rendering more than plastering.

Hard work. Dirty work.

But it paid well, and I wanted good money.

Felt like I needed it — for us, for her, for our daughter. But also for me, enough o lay what I had to and have enough for myself. Not extra for them.

My boss owned a few properties.

And when one became vacant — a nice three-bed with two living areas,

a kitchen-diner, a decent garden —

I jumped at it.

I don’t remember how it all played out.

Just that we moved in.

And somewhere in the fog, I’ve got a funny feeling

there was another house in between.

Another stop along the way.

But that one doesn’t feel important to the story —

at least not from where I stand now.

And if that feels wrong to someone else involved —

if that house meant more to them than I remember —

then I’m sorry.

Truly.

This isn’t me erasing anything on purpose.

It’s just me telling the truth as I know it.

As I remember it.

This whole journey — this story I’m sharing —

it’s not about perfect recollection.

It’s about owning what I do remember.

And honouring the weight of that,

even when the details go missing.

Because memory’s like that, especially when it’s wrapped in trauma.

So if parts are missing,

if something gets left out that shouldn’t have been —

please know it’s not out of disrespect.

I’m not skipping over your truth.

I’m just trying to stay grounded in mine.

That house should’ve been a fresh start.

But it wasn’t.

Not really.

By the time we moved in, things between us were already strained.

I was angry — always angry.

And she was tired.

Tired of me.

Tired of trying.

Tired of being the one who had to hold it all together.

I didn’t see it then — not clearly —

but now I know:

She was surviving me.

I thought I was building a life.

But I was building a cage.

For all of us.

And no matter how many bedrooms we had,

how nice the kitchen was,

or how well the garden caught the sun…

It wasn’t home.

Not for her.

Not for me.

Not even for our daughter, really.

Because the walls carried our tension.

The floors held our fights.

And the silence… that said more than words ever could.

Around this time, the drugs were back.

Maybe they never really left —

not since I’d walked away from the church.

The hash, at least, had always lingered in the background.

But now?

It was more than that.

Almost every week, I’d buy an ounce of hash —

and a bag of coke to go with it.

It became routine.

I’d sit up in the spare room,

snorting lines and playing computer games,

sometimes with mates, sometimes alone.

Either way, I was locked in my own little world —

and nobody else really existed there.

She didn’t know about the coke.

Only the hash.

And even that?

She never really said much.

Looking back, I wonder if she felt there was even any point.

What could she say to someone like me back then?

I wouldn’t have fucking listened.

Not really.

That’s what hurts now.

Because I can’t remember ever being asked to stop.

And I can’t remember ever offering to.

Not for her.

Not for my daughter.

Not even for myself.

It was just part of who I’d become —

this storm of addiction, anger, and control.

And she lived with it.

Silently, mostly.

Because speaking up would’ve meant conflict.

And conflict with me wasn’t something you wanted.

That’s the truth I’m sitting with now.

I wasn’t just using.

I was using people up, too.

I remember one night we went out together —

her, me, and the family she worked for.

An Italian family.

Warm, loud, generous.

But I was a mess.

I got so drunk,

flirting openly with one of the new girls they’d just hired —

right in front of her.

She saw it.

She knew.

And I knew she knew.

But still, that night —

when we got home —

I went back out.

And I cheated on her.

That wasn’t the first time.

By then, we were barely even pretending.

I didn’t want to be there anymore.

Not really.

And I know now she didn’t either.

We were done —

but dragging ourselves along anyway,

because somewhere deep down

we both thought we had to.

For the child.

For the image.

For the lie that staying together meant we were doing the right thing.

But it wasn’t noble.

It wasn’t brave.

It wasn’t love.

It was fear.

It was shame.

It was control, dressed up as loyalty.

I wasn’t doing it for her.

I wasn’t doing it for our daughter.

I was doing it for me —

for the mask,

for the illusion that I was a good man doing the good thing.

But I wasn’t.

I was a boy in a man’s role,

hurting people while trying to look like I had it together.

And that’s where this part ends.

Because what came next —

the break-up, the unraveling,

and the fallout that followed —

That needs its own space.

That’s Part Four.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 4 – part two - The Call That Changed Everything

Social services were involved now —

not to take me away, but to help me grow.

I’d moved again.

A different place this time — supported living for teenagers.

I was just 18.

I assume the door to the Christian house had officially closed after I refused to leave my daughter’s mum.

But I didn’t choose love.

Not really.

I chose duty.

A duty born from pain —

from the heavy silence of abandonment.

From the promise I must have made, even if I didn’t say it aloud:

“I won’t be like them. I won’t walk away.”

I didn’t know how to be a dad.

I barely knew how to be a person.

But I knew what it felt like to be left.

And I wasn’t going to do that to her —

not my daughter. Not if I had any say in it.

There’s more coming back to me now.

I had given her an ultimatum, too. My daughter’s mum.

Either she joined me at church…

or we had to end it.

I didn’t follow through with that.

I couldn’t.

Even then, I knew that love built on fear wasn’t really love at all.

This new place — the supported living home —

I loved it.

For the first time in a long time, I was being taught how to live.

Really live.

I was given a food voucher,

did my own shopping,

cooked my own meals.

I was responsible for myself again —

but this time, someone was showing me how.

It shaped me.

Grounded me.

Began stitching something stable into me that faith alone hadn’t touched.

And I remember that place clearly —

because that’s where I got the phone call.

The one that said:

“She’s coming. Your daughter is about to be born.”

I made my way to the bus stop.

Next bus to that small town.

I don’t remember the journey — not really.

It’s just blank space.

Well mostly a blank space.

Maybe some feelings —

a wave of panic,

a rush of eagerness,

just wanting to be there already.

Not for her.

For me.

Because something inside me knew —

this was about to change everything.

The next thing I remember… I’m in a car.

I don’t know if I was beside her, or behind her.

I just remember being there.

Then the hospital.

A bath was run.

She climbed in.

Contractions were coming regular now.

And then — suddenly, no warning —

she was coming.

No waiting.

No slow build.

Out the bath, into a wheelchair, down the corridor.

Straight into the labour ward.

I was doing the best I could.

Holding her hand.

Trying to stay calm.

Saying whatever words I thought might help.

And then I looked down…

What the fuck.

Her head.

I could see her head.

I cried.

Not from fear — not really.

From love.

From something bigger.

My baby was coming.

And she was nearly here.

It’s a girl!”

I broke.

But in the most beautiful way.

I had a daughter.

My own little girl.

I was actually a dad.

I was so happy.

There was this lightness, this swelling inside me.

But the truth is —

the reality didn’t land for a while.

Everything after that was a bit of a blur.

We were in the hospital for a few days.

I remember some feeds.

Late-night visits.

Being kicked out when visiting hours ended.

Bus rides back and forth.

And that’s it.

That’s what I remember.

Not the full shape of those days —

just fragments.

Feelings.

And the weight of something new settling into my life,

even if I couldn’t yet name it.

Every time I closed my eyes… her face was there.

Not just a memory —

like a vision.

Like she’d imprinted herself on the inside of my eyelids.

I was living in some kind of dream world.

It’s so hard to describe.

Impossible, really.

But if you know…

you know.

That feeling of something bigger than you —

smaller than you —

and yet somehow… made from you.

It didn’t feel real.

And yet it was the only thing that felt real.

was 18.

And her mum was still 17.

She felt the reality of it more than I did — bless her.

She carried the weight, the fear, the responsibility…

Me?

I didn’t have a fucking clue.

I was just a proud dad.

Buzzing. Grinning. Telling anyone who’d listen.

But deep down… I was still just a boy.

A naive 18-year-old lad

who didn’t know how to look after himself properly,

let alone a child.

But I was there.

And I was proud.

And at the time — I thought that was enough.

My mum lived just a stone’s throw away

from where my girlfriend lived with her family.

On paper, it should’ve worked.

But nothing about that time was simple.

There was so much going on —

tension with her family,

tension with mine,

and then us — two kids trying to figure out

how to be parents

and a “family” ourselves, in some way at least.

I don’t remember all of it.

Not even close.

But what I do remember…

was the friction.

Arguments.

Tears.

Misunderstandings.

Power struggles.

Clashes over religion.

Over christenings.

Over whose name went where on the birth certificate.

Everyone had an opinion.

Everyone had a belief.

Everyone wanted a say.

And in the middle of it all —

two teenagers with a newborn

trying to hold it together

while the walls shook around them.

Looking back now…

I feel sorry for them both.

For my daughter.

And for her mum.

What the hell had they fallen into?

Gareth and his chaos —

striking again.

But this time…

it wasn’t just me that got caught in the fallout.

Two more lives were now tangled in it.

Two more hearts.

Two more stories.

And neither of them had asked for this.

I was just going through the motions of my life.

Existing.

Surviving.

Not really thinking. Not really coping.

And I know — I know — I didn’t always cope as a dad.

I remember my daughter crying.

Screaming.

And me?

I followed suit.

I begged her to stop.

Shouted.

Cried.

Collapsed into something that felt more like a child than a parent.

I didn’t know what the fuck to do.

She just wouldn’t stop.

Wouldn’t shut up.

Wouldn’t give me a break.

And I wanted to love her through it — I really did.

But I broke.

And I shouted.

And I cried.

That wasn’t the only time.

Sometimes I was alone.

Sometimes I wasn’t.

But every time, the helplessness felt the same.

There’s a mixture, looking back.

Some really beautiful memories.

Showing her off to friends.

Pushing the pram like I was someone proud — because I was.

My little girl.

My daughter.

I loved sharing her.

Letting people see what I’d helped bring into the world.

Letting them see me as a dad —

because some part of me needed that, needed to feel like maybe I was doing okay.

But then there were the other moments.

The ones I don’t talk about much.

The ones where I was falling apart.

Where I couldn’t cope.

Where everything felt too much.

Where I was crying just as hard as she was —

and screaming at her,

not because I hated her,

but because I didn’t know what else to do.

Both are true.

Both lived side by side.

And that’s what made it so hard to understand — even for me.

We went through the motions.

Both of us, probably hiding as best as we could,

doing what we thought we should,

not because it was working —

but because we didn’t know what else to do.

I can only truly speak for myself,

even if we were both living through it.

But it felt like survival.

Not connection.

Not peace.

The issues between our families made it harder.

More than difficult, actually.

But somehow, we trudged through the shit —

until, eventually… more shit.

There was a party at my mum’s.

My brother’s birthday.

And then — hell broke loose.

A fight kicked off down the end of the road.

Some family. Some drama.

I don’t know how it started — and honestly, I didn’t care.

All I remember is the sound.

The shouting.

The chaos.

And my body already moving.

I ran into it, fists flying,

no second thought —

just instinct.

Someone was standing there, waving a bat —

a Hurley stick, maybe.

Threatening. Barking.

I went for him first.

Cracked him a good one.

Stepped onto a low wall,

launched myself toward him —

arm cocked back,

shoulder following,

all my weight driving through that one wild punch.

It was rage.

But it was also release.

That fight came with a cost.

My family suffered for it.

As we’d already learned —

an English family kicking off in a small southern Irish town,

fighting like we mattered,

was a huge fucking mistake.

They gathered.

And they retaliated.

Not against us.

Against the house.

Windows smashed through.

The front door kicked in.

Maybe graffiti — I’m not sure. That part’s blurry.

But I wasn’t there.

And apparently…

my younger siblings and my mum were terrified.

Scared for their lives.

Soon after, they left.

Got away from it all to let things settle —

and they never came back.

And honestly?

Who could blame them?

It was mental.

But me?

I wasn’t going anywhere.

Fuck that.

I wasn’t going to be bullied.

Not from the church.

Not from the town.

Not from anyone.

Even with her family hating me —

or what probably looked like hate,

but was more likely care for their daughter and sister —

they found it in themselves to take me in.

They gave me a fold-up bed in their living room.

Let me stay.

And that’s something I’ll never forget.

Ever.

That was family.

Not perfect. Not easy.

But real.

In time, we got our own place.

But looking back, I don’t think I was supposed to be there —

not officially, anyway.

I think that’s why they didn’t want my name on the birth certificate.

And looking back, I get it.

They were trying to make sure she’d get the support she needed —

especially with housing.

It wasn’t personal, even if it felt that way at the time.

But I couldn’t let it go.

I had to be on there.

Not because of ego —

but because I was her dad.

And I wasn’t going anywhere.

So I stood my ground.

Pushed for my name to be included —

and we compromised.

We gave her a double-barrelled surname.

It was a small win.

But to me, it meant everything.

It meant I was in this,

no matter how messy things were.

Things settled down eventually.

I learned to walk around without looking over my shoulder.

We lived there for a while — and that wasn’t pretty.

But that’s for the next chapter.

For now, I need to sit with this one.

To give it the respect it deserves.

And let it settle inside.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 4 – part one - The God Who Wouldn’t Speak

I was so angry.

I’d lost complete control. Rage-filled and anger-fuelled.

Spit flew from my mouth as I screamed at my brother —

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!”

He was on the other side, laughing at me. Mocking me.

Now, I’m sure I’d done something to lead to it.

I was probably, at the very least, partially responsible.

But I don’t remember what.

And if I’m honest, this could even be a memory from a different time entirely…

but something tells me this is where it belongs.

I don’t remember leaving England.

That whole stretch is blank.

The last clear memory is getting that bedsit — that temporary accommodation.

I was working at McDonald’s… then not working at all…

and the next thing I know —

I’m here. Screaming. Ready to kill.

That’s not an exaggeration.

I wasn’t just shouting.

I was kicking the door — full force, over and over again.

The hinges rattled. This was a solid wood front door,

and I was trying with all my 17-year-old might to burst through it —

without even touching the handle.

I can still see my brother’s face.

At first, he was laughing.

And then — that look.

The change from smugness to oh fuck.

As if he wasn’t looking at Gareth anymore,

but something else entirely.

Something demonic. Something feral.

Something ready to destroy.

And then — blank again.

I don’t remember leaving.

I don’t remember it calming down.

The next thing I recall, I’m with a Christian family.

Evangelical. Evangelistic. All-in for God.

I must’ve been to church a few times by then.

Because soon after that, I was living in a shared house

with some of the fellowship.

Ah hang on!! A memory that fits!!

I remember the ferry back.

Sixteen — maybe just turned seventeen.

I don’t know exactly. It all blurs together.

What I do remember is the buzz.

I had a couple of quid to my name. That was it.

So I did what any teenage boy with nothing and too much adrenaline would do —

I stuck it in the fruit machine.

Jackpot. £250.

Boom. Just like that — it was all mine.

I still remember the thrill.

The sound of the coins dropping — clink, clink, clink —

echoing like music.

The rush of it. The grin I couldn’t wipe off my face.

I looked around, expecting someone — anyone — to celebrate it with me.

But there was no one there.

Maybe a few looks.

Probably more at the fact a clearly not-18-year-old had just smashed the machine.

No one stopped me. No one cared.

I walked up to the counter, changed it for notes,

and then hit the ferry shop like I was a king.

Perfumes. Teddies. Gifts.

No idea who they were for, but I just wanted to give.

To have something. To be someone.

That crossing was rough.

The sea, my stomach, the high crashing down — all of it.

I ended up sick in the toilet,

falling asleep wrapped around the bowl.

My “loot” must’ve spilled into the next cubicle,

because someone got a free bottle of aftershave at least.

But I didn’t care.

It didn’t feel like I’d earned it,

so it didn’t feel like I’d lost it either.

That moment — that ferry ride —

it was one of the last times I remember feeling free before religion wrapped itself around me.

I don’t remember how I met them.

This Christian family.

But I remember them.

I remember their names. Their faces.

I remember the feeling — safe.

They gave me somewhere to land when I was lost.

Somewhere I didn’t have to fight to survive.

Somewhere warm.

They had two kids of their own — a daughter and a son.

The son… I don’t think he turned out how they’d hoped.

He was a bit of a tearaway.

Didn’t want to know what they knew.

Pushed back. Rebelled.

Maybe that’s where I fit in.

I was the one who listened.

Hung on their words.

Drank in their faith like it might fill something inside me.

And I want to be clear — I’m not knocking them.

They were a beautiful family.

They hold a sacred place in my heart even now.

Their intentions were pure. Their love was real.

And for them, maybe their beliefs were right.

I have a lot of fond memories with that family.

Moments that softened something in me.

Moments that reminded me I wasn’t just the kid who raged and ran and broke things.

One of those moments still makes me smile —

we were baking together.

Me. Baking.

In a warm kitchen with my new Christian family, apron on, hands covered in flour.

It was light. Fun.

A moment of calm I hadn’t felt in years.

They laughed with me, not at me.

And after hearing more of my story, the mum — kind eyes and a gentle spirit — said,

“You know, one day you should write your story…”

Then they joked about the title:

“From GBH to Fairy Cakes.”

And honestly? They weren’t wrong.

It is a story worth sharing.

Church became part of my every day.

No more drugs.

I’d stopped smoking hash. I wasn’t chasing chaos anymore.

I was living what they called a pure life now.

Bible studies. Prayer meetings.

Sunday morning worship — hands in the air, voices raised, bodies swaying with joy and tears.

I sang. I danced.

I held my arms to the sky and welcomed God in with everything I had.

And I felt something.

I really did.

There was magic in that place — or what felt like magic.

Spirit. Power. Peace.

I laughed. I cried.

I hung on every word, as if my salvation depended on it.

And with that came a creeping belief —

“I’m right… and everyone else is wrong.”

I didn’t see it at first.

That shift into righteousness. Into spiritual pride.

But it came.

As naturally as breathing in a room where everyone’s already exhaling the same story.

Eventually, I was baptised.

It was one of the proudest moments of my life back then.

A symbol that I was no longer who I used to be —

no longer the angry, violent, drug-smoking runaway.

I was new.

Born again.

For the next two years, this faith wasn’t just part of my life —

it was the very core of my being.

I walked everywhere with a Bible in a zipped-up leather case.

I read it on buses, on park benches, on my lunch break.

I underlined verses that cut through me,

as if God Himself was speaking directly into my mess.

Revelation 7:14 —

“These are they who have come out of great tribulation…”

That verse grabbed me by the throat the first time I read it.

I felt seen.

Like my pain had a purpose.

Like I wasn’t too far gone.

That belief kept me upright for a long time.

Some of my family even joined the church for a while.

Some hated it — hated the idea of it and everything it stood for.

I didn’t really understand that at the time.

I was proud of the ones who came.

Proud they’d chosen the right path.

And as for the ones who didn’t?

Well… I just accepted they were going to hell.

It wasn’t personal.

It was just what I’d been taught.

There was no middle ground. No grey. No maybe.

You were either saved — or lost.

Redeemed — or damned.

And I carried that belief with confidence.

Not cruelty. Just conviction.

Because back then, I truly believed I’d found the only way to God —

and that anyone who didn’t follow it was walking in darkness.

Within all of this, I learned to accept one core truth:

I was a sinner.

We all were.

Born into it. Drenched in it.

There was only one way out — one way in — and that was Jesus.

To repent. To turn away from sin. To live pure. To be washed clean.

But I never really understood it.

If we were supposed to turn from sin — to walk away from it completely —

then how could we still be sinners?

How could we be washed clean… and still be dirty?

It was a contradiction I never got my head around.

Still haven’t, if I’m honest.

But back then, I just accepted it.

“It is what it is.”

That’s what they said. That’s what I believed.

As long as I made the right choices —

as long as I repented,

knelt down,

begged for forgiveness,

and accepted Jesus as my Saviour —

I was saved.

Even if I messed up.

Even if I didn’t fully understand.

That was the deal.

And I clung to it like a lifeline.

This was the beginning of it all:

conviction and confusion, in one breath.

The start of something splitting beneath the surface —

and whether I recognised it or closed my eyes in fear of going to hell,

the cracks had begun to show.

Church.

Living in the shared house with the evangelists.

Meetings almost daily —

prayer, study, then more study, then more prayer.

“Sinner! Sinner! Sinner!”

That was the rhythm of my inner world.

That was the song they sang over my soul.

And all the while, the rest of my life was still there —

messy, confused, tangled up in this new identity I was trying to live up to.

I had parts of myself I didn’t know how to shut off —

thoughts, feelings, memories, desires —

that didn’t line up with what I was being told was holy.

I didn’t know what was wrong with me.

I just knew I had to keep repenting.

The message was clear:

“You are broken. But if you repent hard enough, often enough, Jesus will fix you.”

So I tried.

And when I couldn’t fix myself,

I called it a test of faith.

I remember one time meeting up with an old friend.

He had some hash.

And I gave in to temptation.

We found a quiet spot by the river —

my Bible open beside me,

a Rizla, some tobacco,

and a lump of hash about to be crumbled into the mix.

Disgraceful, I know.

A walking contradiction —

Scripture in one hand, sin in the other.

I think a part of me was testing something that day.

Seeing if God really was watching.

Turns out… He was.

Or at least, the Guardai were.

They appeared out of nowhere,

confiscated the hash,

gave us a telling off and a kick up the arse,

then sent us on our way.

And in my head, I heard it loud and clear:

God has spoken.

He saw me.

He intervened.

He was reminding me who I was meant to be.

But now, looking back?

There was a camera on the wall.

We’d been fucking stupid.

Not divine judgement.

Just a CCTV feed and two idiots getting caught.

But at the time…

I believed it was holy.

But deep down… something wasn’t sitting right

I slipped up once or twice — smoked some hash.

Hated myself for it.

Felt like I’d betrayed everything I’d been trying to build.

Everything they told me I should be.

And this is where I met my eldest daughter’s mother.

A real connection.

A human one.

Not one built on doctrine, but feeling.

And this is also where the church closed its door on me.

No sex before marriage.

That was the line.

The rule.

The ultimatum.

End the relationship or leave the church.

I wasn’t willing to be bullied.

Not by people who preached unconditional love —

then handed out conditions like God needed protection.

So I left.

And just like that,

the “family” I’d given everything to was gone.

I slipped back into the life I knew.

And, in a strange way, felt more comfortable in.

⸻

But that’s not the whole story.

Because there were things in that time that did serve me —

lessons, experiences, even opportunities that planted new seeds.

I enrolled on a course at the YMCA in Cork —

computer literacy, numeracy… something like that.

I don’t remember every detail,

but it felt like a second chance at school.

And this time, I belonged there.

I also got a job through one of the church members —

learning to plaster.

That was big.

It was the first time I’d picked up a trowel and thought,

Maybe I could actually do something with my hands. Something that lasts.

I started a training course to get the proper qualifications.

Apprentice-level stuff.

And before long, I was working full time.

Plastering.

Building.

Focusing.

That whole period — the course, the job, the new rhythm of life —

it calmed me.

It grounded me in a way faith never quite had.

It taught me to think more deeply,

not just about God…

but about myself.

Even if only for a while

The Lost Boy - Chapter 3 – part four - A Place of My Own

The place they gave me wasn’t truly my own.

It was a room — one of three — in a shared temporary accommodation setup. A box with a bed, thin walls, and just enough space to lie down and breathe. We shared a kitchen, bathroom, and a living room, but those spaces didn’t offer much comfort. Just strangers, occasionally.

Still, I was happy.

Not because it was anything special — but because it was mine, sort of. A proper base. Somewhere I could come back to. After bouncing between chaos and nothingness, having a key in my hand felt like something. Not freedom, maybe, but at least a door I could close behind me.

My things were scattered on the floor — not that there were many.

A few clothes, maybe a bag or two. That’s all I really remember having at first. No furniture of my own, no decorations, no sense of building a home. Just me, my emptiness, and eventually a TV. I’m not even sure where I got it from — probably some deal, a hand-me-down, or a favour. I don’t even remember watching the bloody thing. But I do remember listening to music. I don’t know how or on what though!

They told me this was a stepping stone — a chance to prove I could manage, keep myself together, and move on to a place of my own. That idea should’ve excited me. But the truth is, I didn’t think like that back then. I was impulsive, reactive. Living for whatever today would bring. I didn’t know how to build a future — only how to escape the present.

The only time I ever really looked ahead was when I was locked up.

Funny that.

When you’re caged, you dream about the world outside.

About walking free, doing better, becoming something new.

But out here, when the gates were open and the world was mine…

I still felt trapped.

Still lost.

Still using something to escape.

So there I was: not behind bars, but still not free — but freer than I’d felt for a long time.

Unsettled. High. Floating through the days, just trying not to feel too much.

I don’t remember moving-in day — not the moment the key touched my hand, not what I was wearing, or even what the weather was like. But I do remember trying to make that little box feel like mine. Like something more than just a place to exist.

I’d reconnected with my Irish mate again by then. He was around for most of this part of the journey — and not at all after it — and this memory is one of the few that stuck. I’d had the idea to decorate — not properly, but just to add a bit of something, you know? Make it feel less like a temporary bed and more like a space of my own.

We didn’t think much about it. I just said the words out loud — let’s go get a few bits — and we were off. No plan, no budget. Just two lads on a mission to B&Q or Homebase or wherever it was, walking a few minutes up the road like we had a clue what we were doing. This home wasn’t in the village I knew — it was in the town. Bigger, busier, and with it came this strange sense of stepping into a wider world. More responsibility. More eyes on me. More ways to go wrong — and unknowingly on the search for them all.

We got to the shop and started looking around. I remember being weirdly focused — like, actually looking for things that matched. I found this self-adhesive border with Chinese symbols on it. Proper early-2000s vibe. I loved it. It felt deep, even though I didn’t know what any of the symbols meant. I found a net curtain too — and maybe even some actual curtains to match. A few other bits as well, though I couldn’t tell you what they were now. But at the time, I was buzzing. I felt like I was doing something good. Something normal.

We browsed a bit longer before making our way to the exit — arms full of stuff, heads full of some half-formed idea of a better space, a cleaner life. It was a small thing, but in that moment, it felt like hope. A little flicker of it.

And then... well. That’s where this bit’s a little less innocent.

I did say we didn’t have a budget, didn’t I?
Well, no budget means no money.

We hadn’t really discussed it from what I remember, but we just walked out the shop, alarm going off behind us, and made our way home. I vaguely remember getting caught in some way, but I honestly don’t know what happened around it — because I got home with some of the stuff, if not all of it.

I only know that because I can picture myself back in that room, looking at it all up and about — the curtains hung, the border stuck around the walls. I could be wrong, but my memory says I’m not.

And there I was, in my room and alone in that memory.
High, smoking baccy mix bongs. Feeling proud of my space.
Fuck, those backy mixes hit different. I can still see the cloud of thick, yellowy smoke hanging in front of my face like a curtain. My lungs felt like they’d taken a punch. I guess they had.

That home was full of good memories, in its own messed up way. Much of the same sameness. Drug sessions with mates. Getting stoned. Swallowing pills. Laughing. Forgetting.

The bass seemed to have faded by then, thankfully. That stuff was something else — you could go for days nonstop on it. At least with pills, your serotonin ran dry eventually and sleep would finally come.

One time we were so off our heads, we stood outside as daylight broke, chucking stones at a block of flats across the canal. Seeing who could hit the windows.
Yes, people lived there.
They didn’t get a thought either.

I also remember midnight bumbles — climbing and jumping over the canal locks, peering down into the near-empty drop below as we leapt over them like kids chasing a thrill. It made our highs feel more intense. Fuck knows why. Just drug-taking idiots being drug-taking idiots, I suppose.

Not gonna lie — it was great fun at the time.

Somewhere around that time, I got a job at McDonald’s.
Don’t ask me why, but I remember it lasted six weeks. No idea how I remember the length — I just do. A number that stuck. Maybe because it felt like I was trying to do something normal. Stable. But I wasn’t ready. Not really.

I had family visit from Ireland during this time — my mum and my sister.
I don’t remember it happening at all, but my sister reminded me of it the other day.
It’s strange how memory works — what it holds, what it lets go of.
The only reason I mention it now is because I think their visit might’ve planted the first seed that eventually led me to leave. To pack up and go back to Ireland. Something shifted. Quietly. But it mattered.

I’d also gone to visit Ireland while I was living here.
Again, I don’t remember much of the trip — not what we did or where I went.
But I remember coming back.

And being told someone had overdosed in the house while I was away.

That’s when it hit me — really hit me — where I’d been living all along.
That house wasn’t just temporary accommodation.
It was a place for addicts, alcoholics, broken systems.
I was sixteen or seventeen years old, surrounded by people twice my age who were using hard.
I forgot to say that earlier. But yeah — that’s where I lived. That’s where I grew.

It wasn’t pretty.

I got my room robbed once.
By a friend. Or at least someone I thought was a friend.
That’s when I remembered I had a PlayStation up there — maybe that’s why I don’t remember watching telly. It was there more for the console than anything else. That must be how I listened to music too! Anyway.
He nicked it and sold it for a bag of smack.

I didn’t even blame him.
I did punch him, though.
Not out of rage — more out of what felt like routine. Like that’s just what you did.

And then there was the smackhead from next door who robbed my food.
I came home, opened the cupboard, saw it was bare — and caught the smell of my dinner cooking through the wall.
No way they’d spent money on food.
I knew it was mine.
So I went next door. Me and my mate both.
Found my stuff and gave them a proper beating.

Him and his missus.

He got it worst — but she got hit too, trying to defend him.
A smack in the face.
I don’t say it with pride.
I say it because it happened.
Because this is the sheer, brutal honesty of it all.

That was the life I was in.
One foot in chaos. The other already stepping out of it.
But still, I stood in that doorway a while longer.

Not every memory from that house was chaotic or wild.
Some were just dark. Not visually — but inside.

There’s one in particular I’d almost forgotten. A moment so quiet on the outside it would’ve looked like nothing to anyone else. But inside, it was violent.

I’d run myself a bath.
And I forgot I was running it.

The house had a water tank, not one of those new combi boilers, so when the tank emptied, that was it — no more hot water until it refilled and warmed up. And by the time I remembered, the bath was stone cold. And so was the tank.

I stank. I needed to wash.
But now, there was no choice — it was cold water or nothing.

I got into that freezing bath.
And something snapped inside me.

I hated myself for it. Not just the cold. Not just the mistake. But what it meant.
You can’t even run a bath properly.
What a fucking idiot.
You’re so stupid.
Who ends up having a cold bath in their own place? You absolute joke.
You can’t even look after yourself.

The voice in my head wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t let up.
It just kept going, ripping into me, over and over.
Until I broke.

I must’ve been trying to wash myself, because I remember squeezing the bar of soap so hard it bent out of shape in my hands. Then I threw it. Then picked it up and did it again. Over and over, like something inside needed to break. Or maybe I already had.

And then came the real punishment.
I started hitting myself.
Not lightly. Not a slap. But real punches.
To the head. To the face. Grabbing at my skin, pulling at my eyes, scratching and clawing and dragging the hate out of myself by force. I wanted that voice to shut the fuck up. I wanted to punish the idiot who ran the cold bath. The twat who couldn’t even get that right.

There was no one else there.
No one to stop it.
No one to see it.

Just me. And the cold. And the echo of my own rage

I know this wasn’t the only time.

The voice, the rage, the beating myself — it happened more than once. I can feel it.
But this is the only time I fully remember.
The rest… it’s there, somewhere in the fog. Half-seen, half-felt.
But that’s okay.

I only need to see it once.
Because that one time was all the times.

By looking at that moment — that cold bath, that bar of soap, those fists —
I’m looking at all of it.
All the pain. All the shame. All the forgotten versions of me that suffered in silence.

And now, when I revisit that memory…
I don’t turn away.
I don’t flinch.

I sit beside him — that boy in the cold water.
And I hold him.

I wrap my arms around him and whisper what no one ever did back then:
You’re not a joke.
You’re not broken.
You didn’t deserve that.
It’s okay.
I see you.
And I love you.

————————

I can’t remember leaving.
I don’t remember the catalyst, the decision-making, the goodbye, or even packing my things — if I even packed at all.
I just know that part of my journey ended, and I went back to Ireland.

I never made it into my own flat.
Never reached the next step they said this place was leading toward.

I just left.
Back to Ireland. Back to something — or maybe back to nothing.
But that’s for the next chapter.

And as I sit here now, recalling it,
I can already feel that chapter holding a lot.
A lot.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 3 – part three - Released But Not Free

The day I got out —
I skipped.

Honestly, I bounced out of that place like my feet were made of springs.
After everything, it was finally over.
And somehow… I managed to stay out too.
Beggars belief — but it’s true.

And waiting for me outside… was my brother.

I hadn’t seen much of him while I was inside — and I get it now.
He’d had his own shit going on. His own spot of bother.
As I was getting locked up, he was coming to the end of his own sentence.
He was trying to stay out, keep quiet, and forget that part of his own story.

I was probably the last thing he needed now.
But he still came.

And when I saw him, standing there outside the gates —
He handed me a big fat spliff.

Welcome back, little bro.

I don’t know what I was thinking.
What I had planned.
How I thought life would unfold from here.

I draw a blank when I try to remember.
And maybe that’s because… I wasn’t thinking.
I was just living again.
Back out in the world. Out of the cage. That was enough.

While I was inside, I’d reached out to an old foster family — people who’d said they’d help me when I got out.
I didn’t want to go back into the care system.
And I think they were happy to help. Maybe.
Maybe it was through the system — I’m not even sure anymore.
At nearly sixteen, I wouldn’t have been with them long through social services anyway.

All I know is, I had somewhere to land.
And at that point, that felt like everything.

And all I really remember of that time… is the collapse of it.

I was maybe two weeks into being there — if that.

Every time they went out, I’d jump straight on the phone and ring a girl in Ireland.
I’d run up the bill, thinking they wouldn’t notice.
Or maybe not caring either way.

One day, the foster dad pulled a sneaky.
He crept back into the house without me realising.
Turned out he’d been trying to call and the line was engaged — for what must’ve been over an hour.

He walked in, hung up the phone, and lost it.

I left.
That was that.

They tried to get me back — social workers, calls, probably more than I know.
But I was having none of it.

There was no way I was answering to that fuck-up I made.
And truthfully?
I didn’t want to be there anyway.

From this point on, everything gets a bit messy.

I’ve done my best to piece it together — to keep some kind of order to the timeline —
but I can’t promise it’s all in the right place.

I know I’ve said this before, but it matters to me:
the timeline might be out,
some of the stories might be misordered —
but everything I’m telling you is real.
And it’s true to my memory.

This is how I lived it.
And this is how I remember it.

That lad who first introduced me to heroin —
it was his mum who took me in next, I think.

He wasn’t around — I don’t know where he was — but I remember living there.
And I’ll never forget her help.

As much as some of our parents struggled, they all loved us.
They were doing their best at any given moment — and she was no exception.

I don’t know how long I stayed, but I was there for a little while.
And what stands out from that time —
Speed.

Amphetamine.

I’d been given a fat lump of “pink champagne” — a dry, chalky lump that had once been paste, I’d later learn.
But this was my first time.
And of course — I fucking loved it.

The high was intense. Sharp. Clean. Pure adrenaline.
I don’t think I slept for a couple of days.

I remember sitting up, wired, playing some skateboarding game until I had blisters on my thumbs.
True story.

I spent hours drawing — just scribbles, thinking I was some budding artist.
And when I did try to sleep, I’d turn the lights off…
Only to start tripping, panicking in the dark, and leaping back up to turn them on.

Fuck, that was scary.

One day, for whatever reason, I decided to go back to my old school.
I walked in like I belonged there. Somehow managed to hide the state I was in — or so I thought.
Mingled with old teachers, chatted with students I’d once sat in lessons with.

Looking back now, I don’t know how I wasn’t removed from the building.
But I wasn’t.

I don’t even remember leaving.
Don’t remember going “home.”

But I’m pretty sure that was the day the speed finally wore off.
And I finally — finally — slept.

There’s one more memory from that time.
Valium.
And alcohol.

And then — blackout.

I don’t remember much. Just snippets.
Nothing clear.
Just flashes, like half-dreams stitched together with fear.

The next day, I remember a knock at the door.
It was the police.

They said they’d been told about a break-in — and that I had something to do with it.
I didn’t remember anything clearly. I denied it.
I wasn’t lying — not exactly.
I just… didn’t know.

Looking back now, if I’m honest…
I think I did it.

But it didn’t come back to me until much later —
little flashbacks, broken fragments of a night.
Not that day. Not then.
But sometime later, when the high had long worn off and the silence had room to speak.

nothing came of it anyway.

From there, I fell in with a group of people I started taking a lot more with — more speed, more pills, more of everything really. I was getting half ounces of bass — pure amphetamine paste — and fifty pills at a time. I’d sell a few bits here and there, just enough to fund the rest. And then I’d neck the rest.

I ended up staying at one particular house most nights — maybe even living there. It was just a blur of weed, bass, pills, and chaos. We stayed stoned and high almost constantly. The highs were wild. Full-on hallucinations. Days without sleep. It was madness — and it became routine. High for days, crash, recover, repeat.

I don’t know how long that went on for. But it was long enough.

And that’s where heroin almost got me.

Over the course of about a week, I dabbled. Not once. Not twice. I think it was every day — sniffing it, smoking it. Smack. I was messing with it like it was nothing. Like it wouldn’t grab hold.

Then one day, I caught my reflection.

Just one look in the mirror — and it hit me.

I saw a version of myself I didn’t recognise. Or rather… one I did. One from a future I didn’t want to live. Something in me snapped. It was like my soul stood up and said, No. Not this road. Not now.

And that was it. That was the last time.

I never touched heroin again.

I’ve always counted my blessings when I look back at that moment.

Since then, I’ve lost people. Loved ones. Close, dear friends — including the very one who first introduced me to it.

All gone. Taken in the name of addiction. Taken by heroin.

I had more than a lucky escape — I was spared. And without that moment of clarity, that glimpse in the mirror, that nofrom deep within my soul… I honestly don’t think I’d be here now. I wouldn’t be telling this story. Wouldn’t be sharing any of this with you.

So let’s take a minute.

Let that soak in.

I know I will.

Somehow… somewhen… I found myself turning to the council, looking for social housing.

It wasn’t easy. I remember feeling like I was shouting into a void — like no one really gave a shit. But I kept pushing. Kept chasing. And eventually… something gave.

They offered me a place. Somewhere to call home.

And that marked something new.

For the first time, I felt fully responsible — for myself, for the space I lived in, for how I held it all together.

It should have been a fresh start.

But instead… it became something I ran from.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 3 – part two - Caught, Court and Caged

I don’t remember the journey to the cells.
I don’t remember the interview.
But I do remember being told I was being held overnight — that I’d be seen in court the next day.

Even then, I didn’t grasp the gravity of the situation. I still thought maybe I’d walk out, maybe get a slap on the wrist. But the next thing I remember... was court.

I was stood there, in front of the judge, thinking: How the fuck did this happen?
I must’ve had a solicitor. I must’ve had a social worker there too — I was only fifteen. But I don’t remember them. None of them stand out.

What I do remember — word for word — is what the judge said:

“You are a danger to yourself and a danger to society right now.
You have no fixed abode —”

(Abode? What the fuck does that even mean?)

“—and therefore I have no choice but to remand you in custody.
You’ll be held at Glen Parva Young Offenders Institute until your next hearing.”

That was it.
I knew now.
I was being locked up — for at least four weeks until my next court date.

They led me back down to the holding cells beneath the court. I was given food and water and left to wait for transport. I’m not sure how long I waited — maybe hours, maybe forever. But I remember when they came for me.

I hadn’t quite lost my sense of humour.

The two security officers cuffed me and began escorting me out to the van. Just as we stepped outside the courthouse, I faked a sudden lunge — like I was going to make a run for it. They jumped out of their skin. One of them swore. The other one nearly laughed.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Even now, it still tickles me.

But the laughing stopped the moment I was locked in that sweatbox — a little cubicle in the back of the prison van, barely big enough to move. No door handle. No way out. Just one little window, just big enough to see the world slipping away behind me.
And that’s when the fear crept in.
That’s when the anxiety really set in.

It was a long, long drive to Glen Parva.

Most of my memories from Glen Parva come in snippets — just flashes —
but there are a few moments I remember with absolute clarity.

I can recall the cells.
The shared metal toilet in the corner.
The barred windows that looked out onto another wing to the left.
Shouts and banter between lads, one cell to the next, echoing across the yard.
I remember the smell of freshly cut grass drifting through the welded metal bars that reminded me, even in that moment of calm,
I wasn’t free.
It was warm — must’ve been July.

Once again, I decided to keep my head down.
And for a couple of weeks, I did.

At that age, education was mandatory. The classrooms were housed on the wing itself — second floor I think, I can’t quite remember. I was placed in maths. My cellmate was in there too.
He’d been running his mouth, telling people I was a fraggle — someone who sings or performs for others aka a victim of bullying! - and that he had me “singing out the window.”
He hadn’t.
I’m not saying I wasn’t scared in there — of course I was. But I’d have taken a kicking before singing for someone.

We sat in class. He antagonised. I ignored.
My face burned. Anger welled up inside.
The lesson ended. We had English next — same classroom.

This time, his co-D was there.
That’s what we called co-accused — someone he got locked up with.

Now it was two of them. The big fat one laughing. Egging him on.
Then my cellmate swore on his gran’s life that I’d sung for him.

That was it.
I couldn’t let that slide.

“Fuck you — your nan’s dead, you cunt.”

He lost it. Picked up his chair and launched it at me.
Before anything else could happen, I grabbed the chair by its legs and cracked it over him. Once. Twice.
Then the chair was gone.
And we were fighting.

Him in front of me.
His fat mate behind, punching me in the back of the head.
They were trying to drop me, but I wasn’t going down.
And I gave better than I got.

The teacher must’ve hit the emergency bar — it wrapped around the classroom about a metre off the floor.
A warning to the whole wing.
Seconds later, the screws came rushing in.

I knew what was coming.

I remember being dragged out the room and thrown down a set of stairs.
Then twisted up like a fucking pretzel — arms cranked so far up my back I thought they’d snap.
The pain was unreal.

I knew what the punishment was.
Two weeks on basic.

I only had three weeks left before court. If I wasn’t released, I’d be moved.
But still — I felt such injustice.
Ironic, maybe, considering where I was.

I hadn’t done anything wrong in my eyes.
I’d just stuck up for and defended myself.

Basic didn’t bother me too much though.
It just meant I had to sit and eat in my cell for two weeks.
I didn’t have any luxuries to take away.

I do remember coming off basic.

By that point, things had settled. I got pulled in to help paint some of the cells — they said Unit 15 was going to be shut down as a juvenile wing. No one that young would be housed there anymore.
Something to do with the suicide rate, I think — though I’m not sure.

For the last week before court, I had a TV in my cell.
That felt like luxury.

And I remember this one Kosovan lad — in for attempted murder.
I liked him. He looked out for me. Taught me some basic Kosovan through the pipes.
We’d talk through the heating system — one of those old setups where the pipes ran between the walls. He’d pass me the occasional smoke, slid through the small gap around the heated pipe, wrapped in paper or part of a leaflet.

Strange how a prison wall can separate you from the world —
but not from kindness.

After a few weeks, I went back to court.
This time, I wasn’t walking free.

I was sentenced to a six-month Detention and Training Order.
I didn’t know why they called it that.
All I knew was that it meant three more months inside.
No more, no less.

And weirdly — that brought relief.
After sitting on remand, wondering what would happen… not knowing how long you’ll be locked up —
that’s torture.
Worse than being locked up, even.

But still — three months felt like a lifetime away.

I was moved again.
Same name. Same number.
Duffey. DM7560 9.

Different prison: Huntercombe.

And it felt different.

I had my own cell.
It was better structured.
There were reward systems — clean cells meant jobs, and jobs meant extra spends.
Canteen day was king. We could buy little luxuries. I wasn’t old enough to smoke, so I’d order what someone else wanted and trade it for tobacco.

I remember getting muesli and UHT milk.
That was my little treat to myself.
We all had our thing.

But my favourite part of the day?
When they brought round the hot water — for tea or coffee.
We had a stash of tea bags and coffee sachets in our cells, and I’d have a roll-up ready.
That cup of tea… and that first drag of a fag…

That was the fucking highlight of my life at that point.

I had a couple of scraps while I was in there — nothing major.

A fight would kick off, the screws would come rushing in, I’d be dragged off to the block or banged up in my cell. Punishment. Then back to “normal.”
That was just the rhythm of things.

We had association and mealtimes same as in Parva. But here, every now and then, we’d get to watcha movie on a projector and screen.

There’s one I remember — I can’t tell you why it stuck with me, but it did.
A movie about clever sharks.
Deep Blue Sea — that was it!
Some sat watching genetically modified sharks outsmarting humans, whilst other played pool or just dossed about.
It was ridiculous. And brilliant.

And for a moment, we weren’t inmates.
We were just lads watching a movie.

There were still moments of violence, though.
I remember one lad filling a cup with hot water and sugar — ready to go get a bully back who’d just beaten him in the showers.
I don’t remember exactly how, but I had something to do with stopping him.

It wasn’t about saving the bully.
It was about saving association.

Everyone knew — if that happened, we were all getting locked down.
And association was already becoming less than daily.
The prison had staffing issues, and when there weren’t enough screws on shift, we’d be banged up.
Sometimes the only time out of your cell was for a quick shower and to collect a tray of food — one or two at a time, back to your cell to eat alone.

At times it was 23-hour lockup.
Just long enough to shit, shower, and survive.

And I remember being suicidal in there.

I was alone.
I knew no one.
And I felt it.

I acted out a couple of times.
Smashed my cell up — kicked the sink off the wall, the toilet from the floor.
The whole cell was in tatters. The toilet and sink were ceramic — heavy, sharp when broken.

I tried to cut myself with the bits.
Then I’d try to hide what I’d done.

They’d move me into segregation for a while after each incident.
Which helped me hide it even easier.

At one point, I remember targeting another lad.

He was a proper scared boy — you could see it on him.
And I don’t even know why I did it.
Power. Control.
Just because I felt like being a prick.

I started calling him out through the window —
the start of trying to bully someone.

But it didn’t last.

One of the older lads — he had a bit of freedom around the place, the kind of respect you earn for good behaviour —
he just shouted over to me:

“Duffey, shut the fuck up! That isn’t you!”

I didn’t know what he meant.
But I do now.

I wasn’t a bully.
Not because I was nice.
But because I wasn’t hard, and I had nothing to back it up.
It didn’t suit me.
It wasn’t me.

I can’t finish this part without mentioning the visits.

Not for pity — but for the truth of what it was like.
In all the time I was inside, I had maybe two visits. Three at most.
While others had family coming in weekly or fortnightly, I sat with nothing.

No one.
And that alienation…
It was unbearable.

Watching other lads walk off to the visits room with a spring in their step — knowing someone cared, knowing they mattered to someone — while I sat behind, pretending I didn’t care,
that did something to me.

That isolation. That feeling of being forgotten.
That’s what fuelled the frustration.
That’s what led to the smashing, the hurting, the hiding.

Not because I wanted attention.
Because I felt like I didn’t matter to anyone.

I was just a boy.
And in honesty — I was scared.
Alone.
And sometimes… I just wanted out.

And eventually — that day came.

The day I got out.

I can still remember the happiness. The relief. The way my chest felt lighter just thinking about it.
I’d been counting the days down religiously.

I had this little diary — not really a diary, more like a cheap date planner. Each page had a tiny space beneath the date, just enough to scribble something. I went through the whole thing and wrote how many days I had left under each one.
That countdown meant everything.

I got out in November, just before my 16th!

And finally —
the final day came.
And not a moment too soon.

and that leads onto part 3 - freedom

The Lost Boy - Chapter 3 – part one- The Journey '“home”

15-year-old Gareth — these weren’t just places. They were turning points.
Pivotal cracks in the surface of a life already marked by loss, confusion, and a deep ache for belonging.
These moments didn’t feel dramatic at the time. They felt like survival. Like the next logical step in a story that had already slipped off the rails. But looking back now, I see them for what they were — thresholds. Not just of physical places, but of identity, of consequence, of the slow unraveling of the boy I once was… and the long, winding search for the man I’d become.

Before I arrived back in England, I had to find my way there. That journey started with a conversation with Mum — one of those calls where silence says more than the words ever could.

I owed drug dealers money. Not a lot in the grand scheme of things, but back then, it felt like the world was caving in. I’d dragged a whole storm of chaos to my family’s door after that last brawl. The Gardaí weren’t just knocking now — they were investigating the thefts from the petrol station I worked at. And me? I knew I wasn’t cut out for getting locked up. Especially not in Ireland.

It’s not that I was scared of a scrap. I could hold my own. But prison? English boy in Southern Ireland! That was outside my comfort zone — or at least what I thought was my comfort zone at fifteen. The police cells had been enough to show me how thin that line was. Cold metal benches. Those blue plastic-covered “mattresses”. Names scratched into walls. The Crimestoppers number spray-stencilled in black across ceilings and walls. Hours that stretched like days. And that was just 24 hours or less. The idea of months? or years if the lad I cut went to the police! No chance.

Mum somehow scraped the money together — I still don’t know how — and soon me and a mate were on a flight out. I remember flashes of that journey. The trip to the airport in Cork, though I can’t recall who took us. Bits of the flight. The silence. That heavy, uncertain kind. I remember glancing at my friend. He looked like he was shitting himself. I gave him the best reassurance I could: “We’ll be fine.”
“This is my home,” I told him. “The village. We’re like family there. Someone will help us.”

And then — we were in England. I remember being in a car, on the other side. I was actually excited. There was a comfort that settled in me almost immediately, just being back on UK soil. It felt right. Familiar. Like I could finally exhale. I don’t remember who was driving, and maybe that’s not important. What mattered was that we were on our way “home” — wherever that would turn out to be.

I don’t know what I thought was going to happen.
“Oh yeah, Gareth, come live with me — and my fucking parents!”
What a twat I was.
I can laugh at the naivety now, but honestly — what an absolute fool.

What actually happened was this: the squat. The army quarters.
Remember those houses I mentioned earlier? The ones we robbed of copper tanks and scrap? Well, we ended up in one of them — abandoned, hollowed out, forgotten by most — but not by us. We tucked ourselves into a room upstairs, windows blocked up so no light could escape… or get in. Just me, my mate, and the bags of “belongings” we thought we’d need.

But I wasn’t entirely wrong about people looking after us. Some of my old friends rallied together. I don’t remember if they sorted us bedding or if we’d somehow managed to get sleeping bags ourselves, but we had something. Maybe a pillow or two. Someone brought us a CD player, and an Eminem album — we rinsed that thing on repeat.
A couple of the others turned up with bits of food. A few essentials. The kind of offerings only kids who’ve seen struggle know how to put together.

And we had electricity.
Winner.

We must’ve brought some money with us somehow. Or scraped it together. Either way, we had some hash. And I remember getting stoned and pissed that night — of course I remember that part. Not just because I loved it. Not just because it gave me that floating escape, or made me feel bigger and louder and better than I really was — but because of what it would lead to...

The night that really changed everything wasn’t just a night. It was the whole day leading up to it — the drinking, the drift, the way things spiralled.

We’d definitely had a few. Not blackout drunk, but loud and loose. That reckless kind of drunk. I can’t remember every moment, but I do remember standing toe-to-toe with a mate’s stepdad. And that was the match to the powder keg.

This mate had looked out for us when no one else did — a proper gent. His stepdad didn’t like it. Maybe thought we were taking advantage. He turned up with his brother, and things got tense fast.
I was just a kid then — big baggy jeans, wide skate trainers, loose T-shirt, and that chain clipped to my belt loop and tucked into my pocket like I was in some American movie.

And then — the word.

“Smackhead.”

He said it, and it was like someone lit a fuse in my chest.

Before I knew it, I’d ripped the chain from my jeans, swung it behind me, wrapped around my hand — and cracked him across the head. But not before landing a solid knee straight to the bollocks. The chain wasn’t massive, but it hit hard enough to split his head open. Blood came quick. They didn’t hang around.

I was screaming, laughing, waving the chain like a weapon. I can still see the sick look on my face — like I was enjoying it. Maybe I was. That version of me? I wasn’t very nice. And if you’re feeling uncomfortable reading it, good. You should. Because that wasn’t who I really was. But when the drink got in, something darker came out.

And it didn’t stop there.

Later that night, me and my Irish mate decided to go to his house again. Don't ask why — even I don’t know. This time I had a rounders bat in hand. We were just walking up to the front door when the police pulled up beside us.

“Evening lads. Where you going with that?”

I looked at the bat. Thought for a second. Then:
“Just heading to the park.”

The copper raised his eyebrows. Looked at his partner. Looked at the sky, which was already going dark.

“Bit late for that, don’t you think? and isn’t the park that way” he said nodding in the opposite direction.

Yeah — they knew. It was bullshit. I glanced at my mate and just said one word:
“Run.”

And I legged it.

I ran like hell, a copper right on my heels. No idea where my mate went. Didn’t matter. I darted toward the village school gates — the same primary school I’d gone to as a kid. I jumped — or tried to. Just as I was mid-air, I felt a tug on my leg. The gate caught me right between the legs.

Ohhhh… I felt that one.

My balls practically climbed into my stomach. I curled over in agony as the copper hovered, half-concerned, half-triumphant.

“You alright, son?”

I couldn’t speak. Just nodded, eyes watering.

Next thing I knew, I was in the back of the police car. And as if to rub it in, my oldest brothers mate from the village strolled past, spotted me, and burst out laughing.

“You dickhead,” he said, tapping the glass.

I laughed too, still pissed and finding this all too funny.
“I’ll tell you the story tomorrow.”

That never happened.

I was absolutely oblivious to what exactly was unfolding! It would be months before I saw him — or anyone from the village — again.

I was in that squat for about two weeks by the time this all happened!

I’d run from Ireland — from trouble, from consequences, from the fear of being locked up. But it wasn’t something I managed to escape. It turns out, it was destined. And that was that.
No matter how far I tried to run, it was already written.

Before I wrap this part up, I need to say something.
The order of things might not line up perfectly with how I shared it in Chapter Two. But the truth of it still stands. The fight with the lads outside the shop — that came first. Then came the job, the stealing, the debt, and the dealers. The drinking and chaos that followed, and the final straw — me cutting someone and bringing even more trouble to the door — that’s what pushed it over the edge. That’s what led to me leaving.

I’m not writing this to chase anything or to paint a perfect timeline. I’m just telling the story as it unfolds in my head. And as I write, parts become clearer. That’s the thing about memory — sometimes it doesn’t come in order, but the truth is still there. This is mine.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 2 – part four - Out My Depth

A new home.

And this part’s difficult to kick off, because I don’t really know where my memories start and where they end. I just know this is where I first felt out of my depth. But I couldn’t let that stand in the way of face.

As always — drugs, violence, girls, and a really messed-up teen boy are at the centre of this part.

I guess I’ll start with what felt fun at the time.

Somewhere in this part of the story, I befriended a few people — which wasn’t easy in an alien country. But I found some other teens to spend time with, drink with… and even get off my nut with.

I never really had just one group of people. I nearly always mixed and matched between different circles, and this was no different.

I did seem to settle into myself a bit here — but not in a good way. It wasn’t really a good version of me in many ways. But it was me.

A lot of what happened here was probably normal — at least for my age at the time. Fifteen years old, hanging out with different people, smoking a bit of hash, drinking socially, dabbling with drugs.

The drinking felt normal, looking back. Rightly or wrongly for a fifteen-year-old — it was what we did. Everyone grabbing drinks from home, meeting up and fooling about.

Home itself was pretty much a doss house. Anyone and everyone was welcome. It was always busy — and rarely had nothing going on.

Not exciting. Just… always something. It wasn’t a nice house. It reminded me of being back in the village in the UK in that respect. But it was what we had.

⸻

Whilst living here, I realised pretty quickly I needed money. A job.

My brother and I tried calling into local building sites, looking for labouring work. No luck.

I’m not sure what else we did, but I ended up landing a job at a petrol station — my first proper job. Forecourt attendant.

My duties included loading coal and other random bits into cars for customers, washing cars, keeping the forecourt clean and presentable, and… filling cars with fuel, taking the money from customers, then walking it inside so they could be on their way.

I’m sure you can already see where this is going.

It didn’t take long before I saw my first opportunity.

I started taking the money from customers, walking into the shop like I was going to hand it over, then pocketing it once they left.

I don’t know how — or why — no one cottoned on.

Maybe they did and just didn’t care. But I got away with it for a while. A fair few quid a week. I was careful to start with, but by the end, it was daily.

And it didn’t stop there.

I got friendly with the different cashiers — none of them gave a shit about the shop. I’d go in, chat with them, and while they weren’t paying attention I’d steal fags, wine, food — and phone cards.

Remember phone cards? You’d scratch off the code and enter it when you called a number to top up your credit.

I’d sell them on at half price — along with the smokes.

I remember one time stealing a few bottles of red wine and getting so drunk I woke up with vomit everywhere. My pillow, which should’ve been white, was a purple-shaded red.

That leads me to another memory — maybe from the same night.

I got blind drunk and lost my head. Started shouting up into the house of some neighbour we’d had trouble with. Mum and a few family friends tried to calm me down, tried to stop me.

I went completely berserk.

At one point I bit my mum as she tried to restrain me.

They eventually got me upstairs and tied me to my bed. I can’t blame them. I was like something possessed.

The next day was horrific. I was so embarrassed.

Embarrassed about all of it.

Typical Gareth — hindsight was about all he had back then.

⸻

Back to the job.

There was a group of friends who lived on the estate that backed onto the petrol station. They were a really nice lot actually. I think of them often with warmth. Not sure they’d say the same about me — but I like to think they would.

One day we were gathered outside, near a raised flowerbed, chatting while I was showing off my loot.

And then the Garda arrived.

That’s what they call the police over there.

I didn’t get arrested, not that I recall — but they took everything. Told me they’d be in touch.

That job was over just like that.

I remember the manager calling me, telling me I was suspended.

I basically laughed and said, “You can’t suspend me — I quit.”

He told me I couldn’t do that.

Wanna bet?

Watch me.

No more job. No more money.

That was the job front and some of the social aspect. But there is a bit more. I also started taking more drugs around here. Ecstasy. Wow! This was a whole new love of mine. The stuff was so good! Not recommending this to anyone, I’d like to spell that out right now — I’m talking from Gareth’s point of view at 15, fucked up, lost, confused, and looking for anything to escape.

I’d found a dealer who would give me tick. He’d give me up to ten pills, which I’d pay for later — pay day or whatever we had arranged. £10 a pill. Ten of them was a lot!! They were so strong. I remember being so high, my eyes would literally be rattling in my head. I must have looked a right state, but I was literally in ecstasy. Exactly how I wanted to be!

Well as you can imagine, my job was gone, no money — and a dealer who ticked was not really a great combo. So I was now in debt to a dealer who was going to hurt me if I didn’t pay him. And I couldn’t pay him. Whoops.

Dealer after me — check.

Guarda looking into me — check.

What else can Gareth do to fuck this up?

I decided it would be a good idea to carry a knife with me. A Stanley blade — nothing big but enough to scare someone and make me feel protected. And it came into use one day. I don’t remember the lead-up entirely, but I know I’d been avoiding a few people. There were some tougher friends who were staying at ours who people didn’t cross, so when I was with them I didn’t care, but when alone I was a bit careful. Not enough to hide away though.

Well one time they caught me alone. This is one I owed money to. The chase was on. I ran as quick as I could — but it wasn’t quick enough. All I remember is being laid out in some nettles, getting the shit kicked out of me, fumbling through my pockets between the blows — kicks mostly, I think.

Well, I found the knife. And while I couldn’t exactly bring it into view to see what I was doing, I still managed to get the blade out of its casing — with that little button, you know, the one you press down and slide — and just jabbed in the direction of the legs until I felt it hit something. And when I felt it hit, I pulled it across. I could feel the material resisting the blade. Then one of them shouted that he’d been cut.

That’s when the friends who’d been staying at mine appeared — and as quickly as it all started, it ended again. I don’t remember anything else happening after that. But I didn’t hang around for too long… as you’re about to learn.

Then the catalyst.

My brother was visiting from the UK when this next part happened. I don’t remember the before, but I remember the happening — and the after.

My other brother was seeing a girl, and she was at ours. We said we’d walk her home. On that walk is where things went too far.

There was a shop just beside a field, where a lot of the young lads from this fairly big estate would gather. As we passed, there were a handful of them near the entrance. Some looks were passed — between them, between us, across the road. We were new, so they didn’t really know us. Maybe they were just wondering who we were. I don’t know. But to us, it felt like the start of something.

And it was.

We dropped the girl off at her place and turned back the way we came. But this time, we didn’t make it past the shop. I don’t know how or why, but it kicked off. The usual — stares, gestures, a bit of “bring it” from across the road. Then one of them stepped toward us.

I looked at my brother. He looked at me. And without saying a word, we both just nodded — that sick grin rising on both our faces — and we ran at them.

I don’t know what happened with my brother, but I had a few of them on me. I just let them have it best I could and didn’t hold back. It was a standing fight — I knew I couldn’t go down, or I’d be fucked. Smash one in the face, turn, hit the next. Over and over.

Something stopped it, I don’t know what. But I remember me and my brother walking off buzzing — absolutely buzzing with excitement. Two of us, five or six of them. We showed them!

My brother said he couldn’t do much at one point, as a couple of them had hold of him and were trying to calm him down, saying, “Look, it’s alright — your mate’s winning.”

That wasn’t the moment that made me leave. But it was another line crossed.

Another fire lit under already shaking ground.

The moment was coming. And when it did — I went.

That same night, it all kicked off at the front of the house where we were living. There was a row of trees out front, and at the base of them a group of people had gathered. Fifteen, maybe twenty of them. They were holding Hurley sticks, bats, and whatever else they could get their hands on.

Me and my brother looked out and knew straight away — going outside wasn’t an option unless we had a death wish. I don’t really remember how the night ended. Just that we didn’t go out. Not because of fear exactly, but because it would’ve been stupid to. There was nothing I could do without getting seriously hurt. And I wasn’t ready to die.

It wasn’t long after that the decision was made. I was going to leave.

I was 15 years old, and I’d convinced my mum to buy me a plane ticket back to the UK. I wasn’t going alone — a mate of mine was coming too. He was facing his own chaos, and it made sense to get out together.

The Garda were involved. A drug dealer was after me. And now the whole estate wanted us gone. It wasn’t just about me anymore — it was getting dangerous for my family.

I’m pretty sure things were thrown at the house in the days that followed. I’m pretty sure someone spray-painted Brits Out across the garage door. Or something like that. The message was loud and clear.

It must’ve been terrifying for everyone at home. But for me, the decision had already been made.

And so, off I went.

I remember sitting on that plane — 15 years old, no plan, no idea what came next. Just my bag. Just me.

But I was going back. Back to what I still called home.

Why didn’t matter. What I’d done didn’t matter.

All that mattered now…

was that I was gone.

And I was excited.

I thought going back to the UK would be a fresh start — a clean break from the chaos I’d left behind me.

But the truth is, I brought the chaos with me. As always.

Its so hard to think that all this, chapter 2, happened between October ‘99 and July ‘00. this are just snippets of how much was happening. there are parts of the story I can’t share because its not just mine to tell.

I wish I could say what came next was peace, but it definitely was not!

It was squats, followed by prison — or young offenders — and a whole new level of survival.

And it was still only just the beginning.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 2 – part three - Fuck School

Now, in amongst all this — the country I’d left behind and the mess it dragged with it — was the new school.

Mum had managed to secure us a place in a school in the village we were now living in. And wow — what a world away from what I was used to.

You’d think, with the lack of care I’d shown for my education, I wouldn’t have given a shit what kind of place I ended up in.

But this was something else entirely.

A Catholic school.

Nuns and all.

And I absolutely despised it.

The truth is, the lack of care — that was on me.

Plenty of people had told me how important school was.

I just never saw the point.

I don’t remember my first day. Not properly.

But I remember the feeling of it — all of it.

My only clear memories from that time are scattered and strange.

One was walking down a corridor once.

Another, sitting in a classroom where we were made to sing a song by Five.

Each of us had a part to sing.

Don’t ask me why.

It was an absolute travesty. Embarrassing, to say the least.

And then there was a girl.

A Kosovan refugee.

I can still see her clearly. Short brown hair and a face that looked lost. Alone.

I knew that look. I felt it.

I don’t think she realised I wasn’t Irish either.

We didn’t talk. She never looked my way like we shared anything.

But I felt a connection to her.

Like we were both aliens here — both displaced.

It never led anywhere.

But that unspoken bond stayed with me.

And so did the sadness in her eyes.

It didn’t last long before I broke. That school, I mean.

I would sit quietly in class — hating every second — wishing myself anywhere but there.

I felt like a black stone on a white sand beach.

Completely out of place and exactly where I shouldn’t be.

I’d pretend to write in my book just to avoid drawing attention.

And when the day ended, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

I don’t remember complaining to Mum until the very last day.

But I remember that moment clearly.

I’d had enough.

I hit my breaking point and told her I wasn’t going back.

“You are, Gareth — you have to go to school! I’ll get in trouble if you don’t!”

But I didn’t give a fuck.

I was not going back.

The decision was made.

It was mine — and it was final.

What was she going to do?

Twist my arm up my back and drag me there?

I don’t think so.

I was told I had to get ready and leave the house.

So I did.

But I didn’t go to school.

And I never went back.

I’m not sorry either.

That feeling — the one I carried in that place — it was torture.

The longest few weeks of my life up to that point.

Well… maybe not the longest.

But definitely some of the darkest.

I don’t really know how many days I wandered about after that or what I actually did.

But I do remember one moment.

I was hitchhiking — or trying to.

I’d made my way to a road that led toward the next town.

I don’t remember if I ever got there — maybe not.

But what I do remember is this:

I was walking with my thumb out.

Every car that passed, I’d hold it up with a tiny sliver of hope.

But they just passed.

One after another.

Then it happened.

A car pulled over.

It stopped!

I was so happy.

Yes!

Finally — someone was going to give me a lift to nowhere.

I didn’t care. I’d figure out how to get back later.

I ran toward the car, a smile forming.

I reached for the passenger door…

And the bastard drove off.

Fucking wanker.

That’s what I thought.

But more than that — I felt humiliated.

Deeply humiliated.

The kind that burns your cheeks red and leaves your chest hollow.

What a fool.

Why did I even put my thumb out?

Who would stop for me?

That moment sank in, deep.

And it stayed.

I think that’s why it’s here now.

It never really left.

It wasn’t even the first time I’d felt that feeling — that deep, burning shame.

Flashback.

I remember being quite young, maybe six or seven.

Mum had a visitor over and I was asked to make them a cup of tea.

I was so excited — so proud.

It felt like such a huge responsibility.

The most important thing in the world, in that moment.

I took it seriously.

I went back and forth, asking how they wanted it:

Milk? Sugar?

And then…

“Tea bag?”

They burst out laughing.

They howled.

Not a little laugh — full, deep belly laughs.

At me.

I was mortified.

Ashamed.

Utterly crushed.

But I finished making the tea.

Tears running down my face.

I’ve never forgotten that moment.

Or that feeling.

It took me a long time to stop carrying that shame like it still mattered.

But it’s still there — just under the surface.

And that day on the road, when that car drove off?

It hit the same wound.

It always comes back to that feeling — that moment.

And the boy who didn’t understand why people could be so cruel.

That house, that chapter — it ended without a clear exit in my memory. One moment we were there, and then somehow, we weren’t.

I can’t remember the move. I can’t remember the decision. It’s just blank.

But what I do remember… is where we landed next.

A new house. A different setting. Another fresh start — or so it seemed.

And that place… that’s where things really began to shift.

That’s where Chapter Three begins.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 2 – part two - The Cul-de-Sac and the Chaos.

As I said, I don’t remember being received, welcomed, even led into that house.

I don’t remember anything attached to that moment. No feeling, no thoughts. Not a thing.

From here, my memory jumps.

One of the first things I recall was my cousin sitting on his PC, flicking between radio stations from around the world and telling me how much he could do on it. I don’t remember what exactly — just the music part. It didn’t really interest me that much.

What I do remember is him saying some weird shit.

He had a very odd personality.

“What’s the point in washing if you’re just going to get dirty again!”

He laughed way too hard at his own jokes.

He was always a bit like that growing up.

I had a flashback while writing this — them visiting us back in the village, back when they still lived in the UK.

All of us cracking up because a bird had shat directly on the middle of Ben’s baseball cap.

People said it was good luck.

I always found that as strange as I found his sense of humour.

The house was small. So small.

Three cousins.

Four siblings.

Me.

My aunt.

And my mum.

I’ve no idea:

1. How the fuck we all fit in there, or

2. Which moron of the two parents thought this was a good idea

But I also remember knowing — I just had to get on with it.

It was hectic.

I also remember my other cousin having her friends round too.

Girls.

I liked sitting with them — of course I did.

And over time, that turned into more than just sitting with them.

I ended up having more than a friendship with a couple of them.

I became quite attached to one in particular.

She seemed to know what she was doing — if you catch my drift.

She showed me a few things…

The dos and don’ts.

It was a strange thing really — that early kind of closeness.

Confusing and exciting, like everything else in that chaotic little house.

I do remember the look of the street.

A cul-de-sac on a hill, that once you passed through an alley, looked out over one side of the village and the centre below.

My aunt was seeing some guy who lived at the end of the road.

He was what you’d expect from a young Irish lad —

twenties, drink problem — him and his brother… maybe even his mother and father too if memory serves.

I remember going round their house.

They made tea with a strainer — that stuck with me.

Weird at the time, but it was a bloody good cup of tea.

I remember the smell of coal.

That’s probably what created this weird time-warp feeling.

Before we left the UK, electric storage heaters were the thing where we lived.

Coal fires were basically a thing of the past.

But here?

Every house had open fires.

The smell clung to everything — indoors and out.

It was like stepping back in time.

I’m pretty sure one of the brothers worked in an arcade — I think we drank with him once or twice but that bit’s hazy.

He had a couple of old machines in the house he was obsessed with.

You could see the insides and fiddle with the parts — which I loved.

I’ve always liked taking things apart and trying to put them back together.

That reminds me of another memory — not from Ireland though.

From before.

Taking a plug apart to change the fuse.

I was so young.

Decided to test it before reattaching the back — boom.

I flew backwards, completely blasted.

Mum screamed, “What are you doing?!”

Electric gone in the whole house.

Hands smelt like burning.

Anyway — that was long before this chapter. Just came up now.

We befriended some of the other kids on the street.

We’d all meet up, build dens from nicked galvanised sheets or bits of corrugated steel.

One of them would steal shotgun cartridges, strip them down, and make bangers somehow.

And they went off.

We’d light one, then run and hide behind something, waiting for the boom before we burst into laughter.

And stayed low — in case someone came looking.

Now I’m not sure what order these memories come in — and I guess it’s not important.

This is just what I remember.

My aunt wasn’t around much.

And to be fair… who could blame her?

Her house had become a madhouse.

Infested with children — albeit by her own invitation.

But I don’t think she was very keen on any of us.

My cousins didn’t even call her “Mum,” from what I remember.

Maybe one of them did — but definitely not the older ones.

That probably says something. But maybe not.

Either way, she’d had enough.

She told us we couldn’t stay there anymore.

And I can only imagine the stress and fear my mum must’ve felt.

But she didn’t back down.

She stuck fast.

Refused to leave.

So my aunt moved out.

And then — she had the electricity cut off.

Like she was trying to smoke rats out of their hiding place.

That part was rough.

I remember mum cooking noodles with boiled water from a camping stove.

Hotdogs too, maybe.

Basically — anything that could be cooked in hot water.

She somehow managed to make a few decent meals in that situation.

I think she was even proud of herself.

And honestly — she deserved to be.

Eventually, my cousin — the one with the strange sense of humour and the PC — managed to bypass the meter.

We had electricity again.

But we had to be careful.

Mum didn’t want anyone to know — especially not my aunt — in case she found a way to shut it off again.

And she would still turn up sometimes.

Those visits never ended well.

Always arguments. Always chaos.

I remember one visit in particular — and you’ll understand why when I tell you.

There was already tension.

I don’t know if I’d had a drink — maybe a little, maybe none.

But a row kicked off between me and my aunt.

I tried to stop her from barging into the house.

She was charging up the garden path — shouting, wild.

And then she was on my back.

Stabbing me in the head with her car keys. Over and over.

It was madness.

Pure rage.

I snapped.

I got her off me — and I hit her.

One punch.

She went down.

Bloody nose. Out cold.

Whether she actually passed out or just faked it — I’ll never know.

But there she was, laid out.

And me?

I stood there, completely shaken.

That moment has never sat well with me.

It wasn’t something I was proud of — far from it.

I was always raised never to hit a woman.

That line had been burned into me from early on.

But even with the justification… it left something in me.

A mark I wouldn’t fully understand for years.

I was told never to hit a woman.

Drilled into me from young.

Ironic, really —

that it was my dad who told me that.

And yet it was my mum I got it from.

The message came from her.

Not in words — in the way she lived,

and the way she held us together,

even when everything was falling apart.

Now, back to the girl I was seeing — learning from.

I actually liked her.

I remember one night we all went out drinking at a pub.

Yeah, at 15.

Strange when you think about it now, but at the time it didn’t feel out of place. We just did it.

On the way back to my aunt’s house, there were a few of us walking together.

Some guy started chatting to her.

Nothing mad — but I got jealous.

Proper, hot-blooded, drink-fuelled jealous.

I told him she was mine.

Can’t remember exactly how the words came out — probably slurred and stupid — but that was the message.

Next thing I know, this guy kicks off.

And I mean kicked me up the street.

No exaggeration.

I kept getting up and going back at him — again and again.

But I was drunk. And he was a man.

I was more annoying than threatening — and he was doing damage.

We ended up at the end of the cul-de-sac where I was staying, and I stumbled back to the house.

But I wasn’t done.

I went into the shed and grabbed a shovel.

Madness, I know — but at the time I didn’t give a fuck.

I went back out, hunting for him.

Found him.

And I charged — shovel in hand — arms raised high, pulled right back like I was going to take his head clean off.

I swung.

And I missed.

Thank God I missed.

He looked shook.

And fair play — instead of swinging back, he took the shovel off me and tried to calm me down.

Told me to chill out.

I was completely off my head.

Crazed. Wild.

Eventually, he let go of me.

And somehow — I don’t know how — we ended up shaking hands.

Looking back, it’s hard to believe all of that happened in such a short window of time.

The chaos. The newness. The violence.

The strange sense of starting again with no map.

We were just kids — thrown into a life we didn’t choose,

trying to survive it one memory at a time.

But this was only the beginning of Ireland.

There was more to come.

More mistakes.

More lessons.

And somehow, even more to lose.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 2 – part one - No Way Back, No Map Forward.

As with so many of my memories, some of it is crystal clear and some is rememebered through feelings rather than visuals. the journey across is a mixture of both!

I can still smell the ferry — that strange mix of sea salt, diesel, and stale food.

I remember the coach. I remember staring out the window, too numb to cry.

There was no car. No comfort.

Just a coach, a ferry, and the sense that everything familiar was being ripped from me.

I was dragged — kicking and screaming inside.

The village I grew up in might not have been perfect, but it was all I’d ever known.

And now?

I was being thrown across the sea, into a country I’d never been to, into a house I’d never seen, to live with family I barely remembered.

I don’t remember the build-up to it. No packing. No boxes. No proper goodbye.

All I know is that my brother’s future father-in-law was supposed to bring our belongings over at some point, and Mum was trying to sort out how to get her horse transported too.

And that brings something else back.

Horse riding.

When I was in care, I had some riding lessons.

It’s strange, I haven’t thought about that in years — but there it is.

Another foster family, half-forgotten in the fog.

But I remember the stables. The riding hat. The sense of pride that came with it.

Later, when I was home, I used to help Mum take care of her horse — especially when she was unwell.

I’m not sure if it was a bout of depression, but I think so. She wasn’t herself, well not the one we welcomed!

I’d cycle five miles to the stables.

Muck out. Brush her down. Clean her hooves. Turn her out.

She was an ex-racehorse — beautiful, powerful, temperamental.

And Mum would sometimes let me ride her too.

Under supervision, of course.

But I was overly confident.

Mr Independent.

I convinced her to let me ride solo, just once.

The horse dropped her head, slipped the reins through my fingers — and she was off.

Bolting round that manage like she was back at the races.

And then she decided the fence looked like a hurdle.

Went for it.

Misjudged. Cheated the jump.

All I remember is flying through the air — and hitting the deck hard.

Mum told me I had to get back on her.

I said, “Fuck that.”

Not a chance.

Anyway… back to Ireland.

I remember the coach journey well — or at least parts of it.

There was a long wait between coaches in Bristol.

It was cold.

Five kids and their mum, huddled in a coach station.

And oddly enough, we were… alright. I think we were even happy.

Because when shit was real, Mum had this strange way of softening it.

Maybe she was oblivious to how bad things really were.

Or maybe — and this is what I believe now — maybe she knew exactly how bad things were, and still chose to carry us through it with something close to magic.

Looking back at her now through a parent’s eyes is complicated.

She was shit in so many ways.

But in others, she was more than most parents I’ve ever known.

She gave everything she had.

And maybe what she had wasn’t much — not emotionally, not practically —

but her love for us was undeniable.

That’s what I hold on to now.

Back in that coach station, there was a moment of chaos.

Some commotion. Word spread that someone had been stabbed nearby.

I remember the little ones being scared.

I remember us all staying close.

And I remember the relief — real, physical — when the next coach pulled in,

and we boarded for the next leg of a journey none of us fully understood.

The ferry.

I’ve taken that journey a few times since — but that first time?

It was different. Etched.

We had never even left the county before — let alone the country.

And now we were on a boat, crossing the sea to a new land.

Ireland.

I remember the coach driving onto the ferry —

the loud clank and clunk of metal ramps and heavy wheels.

The air buzzing with tension and wonder.

We had to remember where we were parked for when we landed.

Like it was a car park and not the mouth of a giant metal beast about to sail us away from everything we’d known.

I remember climbing the stairs to the upper decks.

Looking out the windows at the wide, endless sea.

I made it to the top deck at one point — probably more than once —

taking in the wind, the smell of salt, and most likely a cigarette.

It was overwhelming. But not in a bad way.

More like… colossal.

A moment that whispered:

“Your life is changing now.”

And then —

nothing.

I don’t remember landing.

I don’t remember the rest of the journey.

Just flashes.

And then suddenly — arrival.

The whole journey had taken overnight.

From our home in England to our auntie’s house in Ireland.

I remember entering Cork city.

It wasn’t the sky that felt grey — it was the buildings.

Maybe they weren’t. Maybe that’s just how it felt.

I remember the towns we passed through as people got off the coach.

Rendered houses instead of brickwork. Some painted in colours that still somehow felt dull.

Bright blues and yellows that didn’t shine.

Cork felt like a step backward in time.

Misplaced.

Almost like we’d arrived in another world entirely.

I don’t remember much more of that journey.

I don’t know how we got to our aunt’s house, where she and my three cousins would be waiting.

I don’t remember the reception.

What I do remember is the feeling of it all.

Apprehension.

Tiredness.

That long glance backward at the place we’d just left —

longing in my chest, even though I’d spent most of that life just trying to escape it.

I was nervous.

Trying to picture what life would be like now.

New friendships.

New school.

New everything.

I had no idea how many memories I was about to make —

or how much this chapter of my life would go on to shape me.

But I did know that this was it now.

This was what we’d be calling life.

What we’d be calling home.

So it became a suck it and see situation.

Suck it up — and see what life was about to bring.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 1 - part four - Just Another Fuck Up

At home, from the age of 7 or 8 up to secondary school, it was all over the place—as I’ve spoken about already. Care system, schools, split home. Dad was in and out for a while before the decision was made for him not to see us at all. He was unreliable. He’d say he was coming, then not show up, while all of us—my siblings and I—sat at the window, waiting, longing. He did come a few times. I remember a market trip once, and him buying us wax jackets. God, I hated that jacket. It stank.

Anyway, he didn’t show up one too many times, and Mum made the decision to cease contact to protect us from the heartbreak—the cycle of anticipation followed by disappointment.

I remember taking taxis to my new primary school from home, but I don’t remember the journeys from my foster homes to school. I’m not sure why. Those memories seem to be gone. But I remember getting back to mums once and getting a cigarette which is how I remembered!

Mum had a few friends around that time, one of whom became “Dad.” They drank together. That’s where drinking entered my life. I started by pinching the ends of cans, sometimes even half-full ones, and every now and then someone would sneak me a full one and tell me to keep quiet. Maybe along with a roll up or two if I was really lucky!

Those sneaky drinks turned into drinking sessions with mates—getting blind drunk, throwing up, passing out in fields once or twice at least. Someone always found a way to get booze: stolen from drinks cabinets, outdoor fridges, or bought for us by some adult we’d convinced. The money came from friends pocket money, my paper round—or was just pinched from somewhere. No one really cared how we got it, as long as we had it.

I remember tagging along to parties with my older brother, somehow persuading his mates to give me beer. The more I think about it, the more memories come back—but for now I’ll keep it broad. All of those drinking memories were from around age 11 until I left the village—and the country—at 14, nearly 15, after I was expelled from my last UK school.

During this time, I also started smoking cannabis—probably around 11 years old. My brother and his mates would gather for sessions, and me and a friend would tag along when we could. We’d sponge whatever we could get—buckets, bongs, the end of a joint. Sometimes they knew, sometimes they didn’t. I don’t blame them. We were all just kids, doing what kids did—at least in our village.

It stayed at drink and cannabis for a while. But we had a friend, a couple of years older than me. His mum was an alcoholic—she met his basic needs but not really any of his emotional ones. We’d hang out at his place, pinch his mum’s cigarettes and doss about.

Then someone in the village introduced him to heroin. He didn’t stand a chance. I don’t know his full story, but I know he was hurting. He detoxed at ours a few times but always seemed to fall back into it.

One day, I was at his and he asked, “Do you wanna try it?”

Didn’t take much persuading.

He prepped it—spoon, citric, brown powder, filter, belt round the arm. I watched the process. He wouldn’t give me a proper hit, just the wash from his spoon. “It’s enough for you,” he said. And it was.

When that needle compressed, I felt it—warm and cold at once, like a hug in a breeze. I wasn’t completely out of it, but I was gouching a bit. Rubbing my face, feeling itchy, mad dry mouth. He warned me not to chug water or I’d throw up. I still felt sick.

That was my first taste of heroin. I’m glad to say it didn’t spiral much further at that stage. A few times chasing the dragon. One or two injections. A couple crack sessions. I won’t lie—I liked it. A lot. But back then, I was still just a kid, experimenting. Childhood. That word again.

That’s the drugs in a nutshell.

But that’s not the whole picture.

There was the criminality—and the accusation that changed everything. Whether it was deserved or not… it happened. And it led us away.

I’ve already spoken about the first signs of stealing in primary school. Was it lack? Was it just want? I don’t know. But I do know it was wrong, and I did it anyway.

Leaving a window catch undone, sneaking back in later—that idea had been brewing in my head for a while. I remember trying it once or twice before and finding the window locked again when I returned. But then one day, it wasn’t. It was open.

I still remember the cold. The nerves. The buzzing excitement and the sense of achievement just for getting that far.

It was a big window, but I didn’t open it far. Just enough to squeeze through. I slid in quietly, heart thumping in my chest. I can’t recall if I closed the window behind me. What I do remember is the feeling: I was proud of myself. And scared. And determined.

I moved carefully, making myself even smaller than I already was, creeping through the classroom. I rummaged through some desks and found a few coins—but that wasn’t what I’d come for.

I slipped down the corridor, across the main hall, then another corridor leading to the secretary’s office. That’s where I’d seen a plastic tub of pound coins before—watching her add to it or take change from it. I remember feeling disappointed there weren’t as many coins in there as I thought there would be. But I still took some. Not all—just enough so it wouldn’t be obvious. At least that’s what I told myself.

Then I retraced my steps, got out the same way I came in, and slipped back into the cold. I think there was frost on the ground, maybe even the remnants of snow.

That moment stuck with me. It was definitely an escalation from what I’d already been doing—like stealing from the lunchboxes we all kept in the cloakroom area at school. I still don’t remember how I managed that. Maybe I snuck out of class on the excuse of a toilet trip or some made-up reason. I just remember doing it. I knew it was wrong. But I did it anyway.

It escalated.

There was a burglary at a vicarage — the old one. I was with the same friend who introduced me to heroin.

We took a mini disc player, a bottle of peach schnapps, and a few other bits I can’t even remember now. We drank the schnapps that same day. Got wrecked off it. No thought for who lived there, or what it meant to them. Just another buzz.

Then came the copper tank jobs. We broke into abandoned army housing — houses left empty after the local barracks shut down. We’d rip the tanks out from their fixings and throw them through the upstairs windows, crashing them to the ground below ready for collection. An older guy we knew had a car. He’d drive over, load the tanks up, and we’d all split the cash.

Weed money.

We thought we were clever. We weren’t.

Turns out, not every house was fully vacated. Some families were still living there. The noise, the mess, the total disrespect we showed — it got reported, as it should’ve been.

I was charged for both burglaries.

I remember sitting in the police interview for the vicarage break-in and hearing how it had made the family feel — unsafe, violated, vulnerable in their own home. It hit me hard. I felt sick with guilt. I’d never even considered them as people. As victims. I’d never considered them at all.

And I remember the raid for the army quarters too. They came early. Led me out. Sat me in the back of the car and told me one of the others had already confessed, so I might as well tell them everything.

And I did. I sang like a canary.

Only later did I realise they’d been bluffing.

That was before 14.

There was more. Petty thefts. Shops. Purses. One time, I got caught stealing from a shop owner’s purse—while pretending to talk to her parrot. She called me out, loud enough to make me dribble a bit of piss with fear. I left mortified. It wasn’t enough anyone else knew that id let go a bit of wee, but I did!! An older man who had always shown me kindness was there. That bond was gone. I felt the loss deeply.

Another time, the night or so before we left the country, I tried to nick the charity box from the chippy. The owner chased me and winded me with a kick to the stomach. I deserved that. I carry a quiet sorrow for that moment—and many others. I’ve made peace, but the apology still lives in my heart.

Drink and drugs, thefts… and then another layer — violence.

Violence was a part of our lives from as early as I can remember. Not just on the streets, but in our home. Mum and Dad had a volatile relationship. I don’t remember much of it clearly, but I know it was real. I know we lived it firsthand. Dad had a loving side — I remember getting a kiss from him and feeling the scratch of his moustache. I remember hurting my foot on the back of his bike and him bandaging it up.

But I also remember the rules. The fear. The punishments.

He was a military man — and didn’t we know it. Back then, maybe that kind of discipline was more normal, or at least more accepted. They were young parents, under pressure, doing the best they could with what they’d been taught. I know they both look back now with sorrow, guilt, and remorse.

But for us kids, violence became normal — punch-ups between siblings, scraps outside the house. It was just life.

The first proper violent memory that’s stuck with me was brutal. An older lad was laying into my eldest brother — sideswiped him. I didn’t even think, I just ran up and jumped on the guy’s back, arm around his throat, pulling him down. I got up first, then my brother and I kicked the shit out of him. No holding back. I might remember it worse than it was, but maybe not. I know I landed more than a few kicks to his face. And I know I felt something rise in me.

There were other times — times my brother told me to deal with things because he was too old to be fighting kids. I remember targeting one lad, a friend of mine at the time and still now! He was on the floor, and I landed a blow straight between his legs. One hit. No reason from me. Just because I was told to.

And then there’s the bullying I forgot about for years.

One of those boys — he’s a friend now — I used to wait for him after school and just attack him. No real rhyme or reason. I think it was just because I could. I remember grabbing another lad by the head and dragging his face down a brick wall.

Even now, I don’t fully understand where all that rage came from. I mean, I do. But it still shocks me. Some of that violence — some of that power I felt — it wasn’t normal. It was far from it.

But that was my introduction to violence. And to the feeling of power it gave me.

I’m sure there are more stories I could pull up if I really tried… but honestly? I’d rather not.

What happened next shook everything.

An allegation was made against me — not based in truth, but devastating for everyone all the same. It stemmed from a situation involving a girl I’d known well. We were both far too young to be navigating the kind of relationship we had. Things happened between us over time, and it was mutual. We were young, experimenting.

Then one day, she got found out. I wasn’t there when the conversation happened between her and her mum — but when the knock came at our door, I was arrested. I was 13. The weight of the accusation, and the process that followed, was terrifying. I sat in that interview room being told things about myself that I knew weren’t true. But once something like that is said — it can’t be unheard.

I wasn’t charged for the serious charge but a lesser one of underage sex. But what was damaged couldn’t be undone.

My mum knew what that meant. Knew what that kind of shadow can do to a person, to a family. There were some threats made through the grapevine and after that, she made the decision. We were leaving. That was it.

Southern Ireland. Her sister’s house. My cousins. A whole new world away from the weight of a village that looked at me differently but I still called home. Whether people believed the truth or not didn’t seem to matter. The choice was made and we had no choice! When I say we I mean my siblings and I. My eldest brother stayed behind and moved in with girlfriends family. We said our farewells and off we set!

That’s where the next part of the story begins.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 1 - part three - Buckets and Fuckits

So, I’d returned home. I mentioned in the last part that I felt like I was part of my family again — and that was big, because for so long I’d felt disconnected. Like I didn’t belong. A lot of that was tied to how my dad left and the guilt I carried, believing it was my fault. That feeling never fully left me. But I was back.

And then came the transition to secondary school.

I remember my transition day. Not clearly, but enough to picture it — sitting in the hall, the teachers addressing us all. I spotted someone I knew from the village, a close friend growing up. Not someone from my past in care — someone from where I lived, back with my family.

I don’t remember the emotions around it, really. It’s all a bit of a blur. Just flashes. Not even, more like a still image in my mind with a bit of sound. Knowing what I was like I can imagine I felt overwhelmed, a bit lost, maybe even scared — I was never great in new social situations, and secondary school was a whole new world!

But I went into that school determined. Determined to behave. To do well. I wanted to carry through the progress I’d made at the last school — the one where I felt seen, where I’d finally found a bit of steadiness. I wanted to keep that version of me going. The one who wasn’t a problem. The one who could do better.

But it didn’t work out like that.

As much as I tried to keep my head down and fade into the shadows, I ended up drawing attention. Not the kind I wanted. I was targeted — mainly by one boy. He’d pass me in the corridor and always have something to say. A jab about my weight. A name. A shove. Nothing full-on physical at first, but constant. Poking at me like he could sense I was trying to disappear.

And one day, I snapped.

I don’t remember what led up to it. Just that we were in the playground, and suddenly we were fighting. Circling each other, throwing punches, the kind of scuffle that draws a crowd fast. I remember all the kids gathering around, shouting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” — calling more people over.

Then I was being dragged inside by a male teacher — can’t remember who. Just remember the grip on the back of my blazer, being marched into school. That’s where that memory ends.

But I know what came next. My first suspension.

And from that moment, things started to unravel. I didn’t spiral straight away — but the thread was pulled. Slowly, my attitude shifted. I stopped caring. I lost interest. You might still get a decent lesson out of me if I found it fun, but mostly? I was done.

I’m not sure how long I was at that school — maybe halfway into Year Eight, maybe not even that far. But eventually, it was more conflict, more fighting, more bad behaviour. Disrespecting teachers, disrupting classes — the list just kept growing.

At the same time, things at home were messy. This whole stretch of life is hazy in my memory. Bits are vivid, but most of it feels like I’m seeing it through fog. But I know the next school I ended up at… that was another one. Another reset.

I don’t remember starting there. No memory of the first day or walking through the gates — but I do remember being there. I remember smoking. I was always with the smoking kids, usually hanging around with the older ones as well as my own age group. Ive just realised I must’ve been back in care again. The memory comes back through the habit — not the timeline.

I was staying with the same foster family I mentioned earlier — the ones who had adult children that no longer lived at home. They had a property in France, and whenever they travelled back and forth, they’d bring back loads of tobacco because it was cheaper over there. I never went to France with them, but I saw the tobacco. Samson — that was the brand. And I helped myself to it. Not out of rebellion, really. More out of instinct. I was trying to belong. Trying to be part of something. Free roll up handouts helped that for sure!

And thinking about that now, another memory surfaces — one from even earlier. I must’ve been so young. End of term at my first primary school. I remember sneaking back after everyone had gone, leaving the windows open on purpose. I had this plan in my head — this idea to break in. I remember crawling through the secretary’s office, going straight to her drawer. I knew there were pound coins in there. I wasn’t stealing for fun. I was a child, acting like someone three times my age. I just needed something, and no one was giving it. So I took it.

That memory didn’t stand on its own. It was part of a pattern — one that repeated itself more times than I can count. I didn’t just steal once, or twice, or even three times. It happened again and again, in different places, different ways.

And I’m not here to sugarcoat it. I knew it was wrong. I knew it at the time. And still, I did it. I wasn’t given much growing up, that’s true — but that alone doesn’t give someone the right to take. It’s not that simple. I think, deep down, there was something else behind it. A thrill, maybe. A sense of control. Maybe even excitement. As wrong as it was, there was power in it — even if only for a moment. And for a kid like me, power was rare.

That thread — that behaviour — it ran through more of my story than I’d like to admit. And I’ll come back to it later. But for now, I want to stay with where I was, and what was happening with school — because that part of the road was about to take another sharp turn.

So yeah — back to smoking. That school… smoking and drugs were part of it. Not just around me, but part of me by then. It wasn’t just something I did — it was part of how I moved through the day.

My behaviour there was still an issue, though maybe not as wild as it had been at the last school. To be fair, the staff at this one were softer, more calm in their approach. They tried to understand, to listen. But truthfully? I think I was beyond being listened to at that point. I didn’t really let anyone in. I was polite when I needed to be, but inside… I didn’t care. The fuck it was still there.

I probably played them a bit, to be honest. I knew how to say the right thing. How to act like I was trying. But I wasn’t.

I’d turn up to lessons stoned — if I went at all. Most days started with me in the corner of a field, smoking bongs or buckets with a friend. That was our routine. That was school.

Buckets and fuckits.

That was the rhythm I lived by at that point.

I didn’t exactly leave that school. I was permanently excluded — for attempting to supply illegal substances.

It wasn’t some grand operation. I wasn’t trying to become a dealer. I just wanted enough to keep myself going. I figured if I sold a bit, I wouldn’t have to pay for my own. And someone — I still don’t know who — told a teacher. That was that. Another door shut behind me.

That wasn’t the last school I’d go to — but it was the last one in England.

Looking back, it wasn’t just school that was slipping away — it was something deeper. Something in me was getting quieter, more hidden. I was starting to let go of the idea that anything could really change.

This part of the journey ends with another school gate closing behind me. But what was happening at home was shifting too — not a return to old behaviours, but the evolution of them. The things I was doing, the choices I was making… they were getting riskier. More serious. More criminal.

And that’s where we’ll go next if you’ll follow….

Part Four: Buckets and Fuckits

Coming soon — a deeper look into how drugs entered my world… and where they took me.

The Lost Boy - Chapter 1 - part two - Left Behind With Nowhere To Belong

After my dad left, everything began to unravel. Something in me shifted. My behaviour took a turn, and I started acting out in ways that were challenging for my whole family — especially my mum. In my head, it was my fault he had left. That’s what everyone thought, so I believed it too.

I’d run away from home — not far, but I’d be gone long enough into the night that the police would end up being called to look for me. It was a turbulent period — a whirlwind of confusion and rebellion — that ultimately led to the moment I found myself sitting, bag packed, waiting for social services.

I remember the day like a hazy snapshot, the edges blurred by time and the confusion of a child’s mind. My mum was struggling, and so was I, though I couldn’t fully grasp why. All I knew was that I had a bag ready and my Pet Monster with me — that bright, wild-looking toy with little plastic handcuffs it could break out of, just like in the advert. He felt strong. And I needed that.

I sat there, feeling the weight of the unknown pressing down on my small shoulders. My mum was upset. I was scared — the kind of fear that creeps in when something big is happening and no one’s really explaining it. My siblings were there too, their faces mirroring my own confusion.

Then I remember walking out to the car. I don’t recall much about it — just climbing in, clutching my Pet Monster, and staring out the window. Mum was in the front, along with the social worker who was driving. I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew I wasn’t going home. I knew I was being taken somewhere else — somewhere that wasn’t home.

I don’t remember the journey itself, or the exact moment I arrived at what would become my first foster home. What I do remember is the overwhelming sense of being lost. Torn away from my mum. The fear of being dropped somewhere I didn’t want to be. I remember begging not to be left there — not because I had somewhere better to go, but because I didn’t want to be left behind.

The house itself is a blur. I remember an older lady — she was to be my foster mum. No husband, no other kids. Just her and now me. I recall a spiral staircase with black wrought iron railings, and a small room that was meant to be mine. The staircase sticks in my mind even now — cold metal winding upward like the twist of emotions inside me.

The rest is fragments. Fleeting moments. I don’t know how long I stayed. It could’ve been days, maybe weeks. I just remember floating through it, untethered. Watched, but not seen. Looked after, but not really held.

There were a couple of longer-term foster homes over the next few years where I settled more — but I never felt like I belonged.

In one of the homes, there were other children already living there. I wasn’t comfortable. I shared a room with their son. I felt like I was in the way, like I didn’t really fit into his world. I don’t think he liked me much. I was there for around a year, and then I was integrated back into my own family.

But that didn’t last.

I ended up in care again — this time with a different foster family. They didn’t have young children, just adult ones who no longer lived at home. And for a while, I felt more at ease. The energy in the house was calmer, and I felt like I could breathe a little easier.

But even there, the cracks showed. I remember my foster mum once told me I should’ve been an only child — that I was never meant to be born into a big family.

It wasn’t a fair thing to say… but it stuck with me. And in some strange way, it made sense. It fit how I felt inside: out of place, too much, like maybe I was taking up space that wasn’t really mine to begin with — space I didn’t have a right to after I’d ruined everything and broken our family.

Eventually though, I did end up back at home and out of the care system. Back with my family. And there had been a shift somewhere — something I hadn’t noticed at the time, but looking back, I realise it had happened. I felt like I was part of them all again.

Mum had a lot of support from children’s services, and we had a lot of involvement with them. All six of us would be split into pairs and placed into respite care from time to time — just to give Mum the space she needed to cope, to function at a level that could be considered acceptable.

This part of my journey deserved its own space because it marked the beginning of me becoming disconnected from myself. I wasn’t just placed in different homes; I was placed in different versions of who I thought I had to be to survive them. Each move chipped away at a sense of identity I never really had the chance to form. And though the memories are scattered, the feelings they left behind built a foundation of mistrust, abandonment, and a constant need to prove I was worth keeping. That’s why this part matters. It was the quiet, heavy middle — the space between the shock of being taken and the scars I would carry forward.

But looking back now, I can also see something else. As much as there were struggles through this time, I was also being shown glimpses of what normality looked like. What acceptable care looked like. Coming from a family filled with violence, neglect, and explosive arguments between my parents, some of those foster placements — even the imperfect ones — showed me that life didn’t always have to be chaos. They weren’t always loving in the way I craved, but they were structured. They were safe. And in their own quiet way, they planted seeds in me. Seeds of what life could be.