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.