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.