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