L) Do Police take exams to become bastards or are

Friday 18th October 2002.

Had an awful time on Wednesday. Poor Pete I gave him so much crap and
feel sorry for him. He came through and we went out for a drink, it was
okay but very quiet, nobody was out playing.

Afterwards we went home and pretty much straight to bed. From there on
in the night turned into disaster. I really over-reacted and Pete must
think I'm at least half psychotic if not full out nuts.

We were both very aroused and wanted to make love. We were lying on our
sides facing each other and he pulled me over on top of him. The minute
his penis connected with my body it turned tail and ran as fast as its
depleting veins would carry it back in the direction of his scrotum and
there it hid, peeping out from behind his balls in terror.

The first time he blamed being tired.

The second he blamed the condom.

This time there was nothing left to blame.

He climed on top of me and I was just cold as ice. I managed to tell
him about the problem I have with men leaning over my face and making
me feel pinned. He knew I have problems in my past but we have never
talked about it. I told him that I was repeatedly raped from the age of
six, and that by the time I was nine I had been molested by not one but
three dirty-old-men. One of them was completely unconnected to the
other two.

How the hell can that not be my fault? I've had thirty-years of course
to learn that it wasn't my fault. The second one was a friend of my
father's, Dad left me with him on my ninth birthday while he went out
to buy ice-cream for my party. I had semen all over my party dress when
I blew my candles out. That's the one and only birthday party I've ever
had in my life. And I've often wondered if Dad set me up with
Victor.

VICTOR &;#8230; dirty scummy bastard. Filthy clothes and huge
bristly moustache, stinking of whiskey and sweat. Ulverston 1972.
Worked on the dustbins I think, I know for a fact his brother Allan
did. He was in his fifties I was a few hours into my ninth year. And by
Christ if I knew his surname I'd be printing that in capital letters
too. VICTOR BASTARD.

I tried to locate him ten years ago when I was ready to deal with my
past. I told people that I wanted my day in court, but in actual fact I
wanted to beat the living shit out of the piece-of-filth bastard.
Eighty-year-old defensless old man? Good all the better to hurt him,
slowly. I never did confront my father with what he did to me, and
Victor died and robbed me of the chance. I wanted to beat three dirty
old peadophiles when I hit him. Would I have been able to do it when it
came down to it? Well we'll never know now will we? But I have a
lifetime of hatred for him. I'm not a violent person. Do all people who
want to inflict serious physical harm on another human being say they
aren't violent? Maybe beating Victor to within an inch of his life is
just a fantasy but it's one that burned in my belly for a long time. I
nursed my father for two years with every intention of finding a way to
murder him and not get caught. We became friends and I never forgave
nor forgot but I learned to like him. I think in all honesty I AM a
violent person, if I'm given reason to be. I think to make an honest
statement. I'm not normally a violent person.

The third bloke was a man who took me into his allotment shed when I
came off my bike and cut myself up. He was sixty plus and 'only' french
kissed me and touched me up. But what was it about me that drew
dirty-OLD-men to me. My father was sixty-two when I was born.

So back to Pete. I reacted badly to his loss of erection and having to
tell him about my panic. I felt so hurt that I said I was going to
sleep and turned my back on him.

Obviously poor Pete was hurting too, what about his feelings?

We lay for over an hour in silence, at first he tried to stroke me and
kiss me he caressed my back, but I just let the wall go up and ignored
him. It was awful. It must have been more awful for him than it was for
me. But at the time my own selfish feelings were all I could think
about.

All the usual stuff, How ugly I must be, how repulsive. The same old
boring stuff.

After an hour or so I asked him if he was asleep. He said he was wide
awake. He sounded so unhappy. I asked him what he was thinking and he
said that he didn't know why he couldn't make love to me.

Of course I had all the answers and told him exactly why he couldn't.
He said that wasn't the case, but I didn't believe him. The wall was
well and truly up and I was hurt and lashing out.

I asked him about Brenda, the sex with her was incredible apparently,
but she didn't care about him the way he cared about her. I said to him
that if he could put me into Brenda's body he'd have the perfect woman
and he didn't bother to deny it. I know I shouldn't fire Brenda at him
like a missile, but she's there between us. Brenda the wonderful,
Brenda whose fantastic in bed each time every bloody time. Brenda who I
can't measure up to. Brenda simply the best.

"Sooz don't compare yourself to Brenda because it's a completely
different situation. What I had with her I could never have again with
another woman."

Well thanks love, that makes me feel so much better. I want to be the
best lover he's ever had. Not the worst, and vice-versa. I've never had
any trouble satisfying a man before. Tim degraded me horribly and made
me feel like dirt, but at least I could always please him in bed.

I asked Pete bluntly.

"Could you put up with being with me and having a shite sex life?" And
he said no because sex is very important to him.

I came to within an inch of ending it. I told him that I didn't want to
be hurt again and that I'd rather end it now than later when my
feelings for him might be even stronger than they are now.

I feel rejected, inadequate, useless, worthless and ugly.

He must feel a whole list of negative emotions too.

He says I'm making a big deal out of something that isn't important yet
because it's early days. He says that I'm too emotional.

But what he doesn't understand is that it's not just a big deal for me,
it's a HUGE deal. My father started calling me an ugly bitch when I was
three-years-old. All through my childhood I was a freak who only
old-men found attractive. I was ESN so stupid as well. All my life I've
felt ugly and worthless.

I equate sex with being loved. That's why I'm not into casual sex. When
a man comes inside me I think "Wow he did that for me, I did that to
him, he must really love me." My rational mind tells me that's bullshit
and sex is sex and love is something different. I know it's ridiculous
but only when I'm having sex do I feel really loved. And I suppose
that's why I have such a high sex drive.

I'm a pleaser, I'll do anything to please the person I'm with. I don't
want to just be good, I need to be the best they've had and if I'm not,
witch I assume is always, I feel lacking and useless.

So I've asked Pete if we can lay off the sex for a while. It will give
us both breathing space and take the pressure off.

Pete said that all week all he thought of was Wednesday night and
making love to me. When he's not with me he needs to masturbate every
day at least once. And he says he 'fancies me like mad' When I'm being
logical I believe him when he says that because it's happened before he
worries about it and the second he's put on the spot he loses it.

When I'm not being logical and I let the nasty person inside me talk, I
know it's because I'm too ugly and repulsive to think that he could
want to make love to me.

I've tried everything I can to turn him on. I've stroked, touched and
tickled. I've kisked and talked. I've licked and sucked, moaned and
groand bucked and writhed and wriggeled, what more can I do other than
say three Hail Mary's and a fucking Our Father.

It's so frustrating because EVERYTHING else in our relationship is
perfect. I just want it to be right.

I have always thought that the police geta raw deal. They only do their
jobs like anybody else and for the most part do a good job, and yet so
many people have nothing good to say about them.

Just lately my faith in the local police force has gone right down the
pan. Do they take exams in being bastards or are they born like
that?

I feel so sorry for our Les and Shell. Particularly Shell. Funny I
should be mentioning Lou in that as well but she doesn't apply, because
although she might be a bit upset, it won't bother her too much. Lou
loved David as we all do, but she's lost him, grieved and got on with
it. Les is pretty much sorted as well, she has her bad days and her
weepy days but that's normal and natural and for the most part she's
okay. As for Emma well she's so wedged into her own tiny little selfish
world that she couldn't give a shit. Apart from when 'Angel's' comes on
in the pub and she makes a big show of bursting into tears and drawing
as much attention to herself as she can. Which is pretty much every
Saturday.

It's Shell whose not coping. David's death has brought back her
anorexia. She weighs five stone eleven. And with the latest upset she
tried to kill heself yesterday. It wasn't a half baked suicide
attention stunt. Des wasn't due back at the house until at least six o
clock and the kids were going to the garage from school. She had all
day to herself, but for the fact that Des had forgottten some MOT
certificates and had to go back at ten-o-clock.

Shell and Dave were always very close.

Shell goes to the cemetary every day and sits there for hours in all
weather's. Des often has to get out of bed at ungodly hours of the
nigth to go and bring her home. The strain on Des and the kids is
immense.

Anyway cutting to the point. Les has asked me to write letters and file
complaints as high up the police organisations arse as it's possible to
get. I'll even go to the press if I have to. Almost a year after his
murder, the police have finally released our Dave's 'effects' personal
belongings.

They called at Les' on Wednesday. Les was still on holiday in minorca,
so Shell took possession of the bag and signed for them.

She took it to her house but couldn't face opening it until the
Thursday. She says everytime she looked at the bag she threw up. That
bag contained everything that was left of her brother's memory. It lay
on the carpet in the living room all night. Shell has an eleven year
old son whose an absolute idiot (Daniel) and a daughter with, the
attention deficit disorder, hyper-activity synrome thing ADD?

On Thursday Des wanted to be with her when she opened the bag but they
had a huge row when she took a strop and cut him out. It was something
she needed to do herself.

When the police man gave her the stuff he said.

"TAKE YOUR TIME LOOKING THROUGH IT SHELL, THERE'S SOME 'GOOD' MEMEORIES
OF DAVID IN THAT LOT."

She never got his name or number but by Christ I'll find out who it was
and he's going to be sorry.

Inside the bag were the clothes Dave was wearing when he died, they
were soiled and stunk to high hell. When his junkie friends found him
dead they plunged him in a bath of ice-cold water in an attempt to
bring him round. The clothes were mildewed and very nasty. There was
his mobile phone and empty wallet. Other than that the bag was filled
with stuff confiscated from the crime scene by the police. There were
jiffy bags filled with two lots of white power, a browny coloured
powder and some pills. The bags were labelled with the lab stickers and
in laymans terms were filled with heroine, methadone, speed and
ecstacy. There were spoons and silver paper used for buring the stuff
and seven used needles. The needles were not in protective casings and
were left lose in labelled jiffy bags.

The last item was another needle, it had some blood in the carriage and
the label read.

David Halse.

Found at (and the address.)

The date

'Needle of death'

Can you imagine how Shell felt when she saw that?

Wasn't that a brilliant joke by the Barrow-in-Furness Police Force?
Let's send back a load of category A, illegal drugs that should have
been destroyed to an addicts grieving family. That'll be a last laugh
on the junkie bastard.

If Daniel had found that needle he would have been sure to take it to
school to show all his mates. "Look this is the drugs needle that
killed my uncle." Beccy bounces round that house like a lunatic she
could quite easily have jumped all over that bag and got infected by
one of the sharps. She's five years old she could have taken the pills,
eaten the powder.

As a nurse I know that any surgical sharp even ones that aren't
infected, have to be put in a specially marked yellow pedal bin, these
are then sealed and can't even be collected by the regular bin service.
Every time I want one removed I have to ring the town hall and arrange
collection.

David was a Hepatitis C carrier through his years of sharing
contaminated needles. The police saw fit to put those seven filthy
needles, that may have come from anybody in that flat with any disease
imaginable, into lose jiffy bags, plus the 'Needle of Death'.

When Des found Shell unconsious, as well as having taken a cocktail of
the lose drugs she had plunged Dave's needle into her arm. With the
amount of crap she had taken it's a miracle she pulled through. They
said the only reason she had survived is that she took everything
without it being prepared so luckily puked up most of it. She's on Dane
Garth psychiatric ward now on a ninety day commital order. And we have
to wait and see if she has contracted Heppy C, apparently it's lain
dormant for almost a year, there is stillsome risk of contamination.
Stupid, Stupid girl. The sad thing is that she's not allowed to have
any visitors for at least the first thirty days. She's going to feel so
abandoned and unloved. They've got her on a fifteen minutes suicide
watch.

When is this family going to get some good luck?

We are decent, normal people,victims of circumstance for the most part.
Are we really so fucked up?

I know that to the outside world Our David was filth. I'm the first one
to look down my nose at people rolling round drunk or stoned in the
gutter. Sad useless people who don't want to help themselves. I'm not
saying Dave was much different to them, but he never, ever did his
stuff where anyone other than his junkie mates would see him. Dave
didn't flaunt what he was for the world to see, he was deeply ashamed
of his addiction. We never once saw him stoned, well apart from off a
bit of weed in between times. Three times a week he used to go off to
Barrow for the night and that seemed to be enough to do him. He used to
rob cars, stealing stereo's to get his fix. He never stole from his
family, never took from Les' purse and never hurt anyone physically to
get what he needed. I'm not condoning what he did. He was a junkie and
he lived a junkie lifestyle. He was a thief and he hurt people by
stealing from them.

But he hated what he was. He used to cry sobbing that he wished he
could just be normal. He spent half his life in Haverigg prison. They
were his happiest times. They used to keep his job in the kitchens open
for him. When he went in they'd lock him up for a week in the hospital
wing. Dave went through hell each time, every time. Complete cold
turkey de-tox. He'd go in weighing an emaciated six stone and come out
six months later having worked out for five hours a day at a healthy
twelve stone. Clean, fit, optimistic. "I'm going to do it this time
Mam, you just watch me." He'd keep away from the junkies, stay at home.
Dave was funny, he made everyone laugh. He was, sweet, and kind and
loveable. He'd do anything for anyone and in those months when he was
clean he used to go round all the family fixing broken cupboards and
mending leaky taps. Anything to fill his days and keep him away from
his 'mates'.

And then one day he'd go up to our Shells and wouldn't come back, He'd
be away for a week and when he did come home he'd have lost a stone,
he'd lose a stone a week from then on and we'd be off again, just
waiting for the police to tell us he'd been arrested or killed. This
time, 4th of December last year as his mother was putting her
decorations up in memory of another dead son (She always puts up her
decorations on the third of december for Jay she was a day late last
year with being ill, wonder when they'll go up this year? Or if indeed
they will.) someone he owed money to had cut his heroin with Warfarin
(rat poison) some would say a fitting way for him to end being killed
by vermin poison.

How dare the police get their fun by trampling over a loved one's
memories like that. We knew what Dave was. Because they saw him as
filth, does it automatically follow that the people who loved him are
too. Is that all his family deserve to be the brunt of a cruel and
dangerous joke by bored police in their lunch hours?

My cousin David Halse was a sick man, but beneath the junkie and the
thief he was a good man.

I have an enormous candle on my computer desk. We call him 'Uncle John
From Jamaica' he's a black and gold skull,and I think he's
beautiful.

Dave came down with it for me out of the blue one day.

"I've got you a present darlin' I was out 'shopping' last night and
this just leapt out at me and I thought of you, coz you're a bit weird
aren't you?"

"Where did you nick this from then?"

"The candle factory, but don't worry they've got plenty more."

I do miss him.