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.