I quickly wrote several other letters. I used different dates from previous weeks when I hadn't written. I didn't think he'd notice the postmarks didn't match. I hoped the letters would arrive together. Then he might think the authorities were conspiring to thwart the relationship. This belief could only strengthen his bond with Patsy.
At the time I was writing to Copeland, I was having to deal with a developing crisis in my own life. Paul Betts had appeared on television to call me a bastard and to blame me for the death of his daughter Leah, who'd died after taking an Ecstasy pill bought at Raquels by one of her friends. He based his conclusion on the fact I'd turned a blind eye to drug dealing at the club. I regarded his allegation as ridiculous, like someone blaming a pub landlord for getting him convicted of drink-driving. I was sorry for Leah's death, but she, as an 18-year-old adult, had chosen to take drugs at her father's home (15 miles from the club) knowing the risks. And even her moralising father didn't deny that she knew the risks. Leah took the pill that killed her in her own upstairs bedroom with her parents downstairs.
The publicity created by Paul Betts's allegation led to my children being taunted at school by fellow pupils who called me a 'murderer'. I wrote an open letter to him, urging him to confront me on live TV, so we could debate who might really be responsible for Leah's death, but he declined my invitation.
This strain added to already existing tensions in my relationship with Debra. After a prolonged period of turmoil, we decided to split. We sold our house in Mayland. Debra found a house near her mother's. I went to live in a flat near Basildon.
Patsy told Copeland she'd moved to Basildon. I knew he was desperate for a photo, so I had to acquire one from somewhere. I didn't want to send a photo of anyone I knew. Instead, I wrote as a would-be customer to a marriage agency offering Russian brides to British men. They sent me a large envelope crammed with photos. The only problem with the woman I chose as the best Patsy was her brown hair. I'd earlier described Patsy's as blonde. I decided to take the risk: if Copeland noticed the discrepancy, I'd say Patsy had dyed her hair - an innocent girly pastime.
The woman in the photo looked good, but not knockout. She came across as warm and friendly, but meek and eager to please. I made out Patsy had hesitated in sending him her photo because she felt insecure about her looks. She thought she looked a bit geeky. I enclosed a newspaper article and mentioned the many articles on the Internet praising him. I failed to point out that this praise could only be found on Nazi websites, a few of which had voted him 'Aryan of the Month'.
On 12 August, he wrote:
Dear Patsy,
I thought I better write again as know I have recieved all your letters, they all came within about 4 days of each other, I allso recieved your photo and you don't look geeky at all, if you don't mind me saying, you are very attractive young lady, but didn't you say you were blonde once, never mind, I got that newspaper article you sent it was very interesting, please send me all the stuff on the internet about me as im curious to know what it says, so youve moved to basildon it must be a change from Mayland, I left home when I was about 20 and i never wen't back, It feels strange being famous (for all the wrong reasons) people wanting your autograph people wanting to slit your throat, well thats life isn't it, Ill write more often cause I know its just the screws holding up your letters.
Dave.
In my next letter, I said Patsy had now read all his Bible references, but they'd left her confused, because, while God did seem hostile to homosexuals, Patsy hadn't been able to find His description of blacks as people of mud having no souls.
He replied on 22 August:
Dear Patsy,
How are you, things hear are as normal, waiting to go back to court, the courts have been messing me around and won't let me change lawyers, so ive decided to do my case, how are things with you, settling in to your new home, lots of wild parties i bet, those references I gave you are just a guide, the problem is there are houndreds of different bibles thes days, most of them have had all the good bits taken out, the Jews are mostly to blame along with the degenerates, anything good about me on the internet, if there is send me a copy Im still waiting for the screws to clear you for visits, when they do ill sort out a visit, don't worry about any one saying anything, if someone does say your my sister or something, its a bit of a ordeal though, Metal detectors, searches, a good rub down from lesbien screws, what do your friends think about you writing to me, or don't they know, anyway ill stop writing know and wait to you write back,
Dave.
The idea of 'lesbien screws' might have frightened an innocent like Patsy, so I didn't write back at once. On 6 September, he wrote without my having replied to his earlier letter.
Dear Patsy,
How are you and how are you doing haven't heard from you for a bit, Probably just the screws holding up my mail, though I would right so you didnt think I would forget about you, so how are things, settling into your house OK, anything good about me on the internet, Ive finally got back visiting forms so you can come and visit, It would be easyer if you sent me your new phone number so I could call to book a visit, anyway thats all for now, take care and write soon.
Dave.
I said Patsy had found it hard to write back immediately. She'd been frightened by his description of the security procedure she'd have to undergo. His comments had made her realise what a dangerous place prison could be. I said she had particular anxiety at the thought of her intimate parts being manhandled by a butch lesbian. In the future, such a prospect would provide a good excuse for not visiting him.
A few months after moving back to the Basildon area, I bumped into a woman called Emma Turner, whom I'd first met at Raquels. We'd always got on well and we began to see each other regularly. Before too long, I gave up my rented flat to move in with her.
Since the end of my catalogue of court appearances in connection with the events of 1995, I'd found a full-time job driving a tipper lorry. I was soon offered a managerial position - and a post in Peterborough, Cambridgeshire. I didn't want to move away from my two children. Being able to see them every other day had lessened the trauma of being separated from them. Instead, I chose to drive to Peterborough every day, leaving the house at 4.30 a.m. and returning around eight in the evening. The rewards of going straight weren't overwhelming.
I gave Copeland my new address in Basildon. On 17 September, he wrote:
Dear Patsy,
How are you, sorry I scared you about the security, I was properly in a funny mood, anyway it doesnt matter if you write, phone visit as long as I hear from you in some way im happy, So have you moved again, Is there any more stuff on the internet about me, I am up to court next week so there might be anyway thats all for now, Take care
Dave.
I downloaded more material from the Internet: his public image clearly obsessed him. I wrote that Patsy felt impressed by the number of people who seemed to admire him: he had to be a very special person to arouse such devotion. However, my trawl through the Internet dredged up some bad news for him. The BNP - of which he'd been briefly a member and which he'd earlier praised to Patsy - now said he ought to be hanged for his crimes.
I wasn't surprised. In recent years, with an eye on winning elections, the party had tried to develop a more respectable image. They still spat the rhetoric of hatred, but when dupes like Copeland acted on that rhetoric they rushed to distance themselves. I knew that behind closed doors the average BNP member would be raising his can of Special Brew to Copeland. But, publicly at least, the leadership couldn't support his 'war effort'. I imagined Copeland in his cell receiving my news - the soldier being told his mission had been pointless. Copeland replied on 4 October:
Dear Patsy,
How are you, thanks for your letter and that internet stuff you sent me, the BNP are a bunch of twats, they dont realise that most British people are just walking Zombies with no mind of there own, I feel sorry for these people so content with nothing, I don't cla
ss you as one of thes, I have your picture up on my wall and sometimes ill look at it and play with myself, ive been in prison for six months and ive had to learn to masterbait, I lye on my bed at Night and think about you I think things, scenarios, fucking you, another inmate noticed your picture on my wall and said I was a lucky Guy, if all this didn't happen I would of nether met you, so thats one good thing thats come out of this,
Dave.
PS Could you send me some more pictures of yourself, Thanks
I really laughed when I read his words. The big Nazi who pitied other people's empty lives lying on his cell bed masturbating in front of a photo of an imaginary lover. I knew I had to use Patsy's sexual allure to keep him hooked, but I didn't want to provide him with props for masturbation. In the past, with my other 'penfriends', I'd always boxed around sex, trying to avoid writing anything too explicit, while indicating that my imaginary character had similar sexual interests.
I decided in this instance that Patsy would have to act shocked. I'd developed Patsy as a nice young woman with traditional values. Such a woman would hardly respond warmly to an incarcerated nail-bomber's pornographic fantasies. I was experiencing what I'd experienced before: a character forms as you write, and gradually this imaginary person has certain views on certain things.
I didn't give Copeland too brutal a ticking-off for his premature advance. I didn't want him to think of Patsy as a frigid ice-maiden who'd remain permanently cold to him. She'd repulsed that first crude grab, but he needed to know that if he persisted he might eventually get more than a peck on the cheek.
I wrote that, while Patsy felt close to him and wanted their relationship to continue, she'd been hurt and upset by his strong language. This had come at a time when her devotion to him had caused a rift within her family: they didn't approve of her writing to him. Then all Patsy's other little hurts came pouring out - how she felt Copeland had doubted her in the past, questioning her address and so forth. He wrote back swiftly:
Dear Patsy,
How are you, and what have you been getting up to, sorry my last letter up set you, I don't know why it did I wasn't trying to, if I did, I am sorry,
Anyway im back up in court on thursday, im not looking forward to it, all those people staring at you, being the center of attension, thats not me im a bit shy,
Sorry to hear that you writing to me has caused rifts in you private life with your family, thank you for standing by me I know how hard it can be for you,
Ive never douted you patsy, Qut the oppersite, you have been a piller at my side during my incarceration, and I appresiate this alot, Anyway sorry I might off hurt you, I didn't mean to, write back soon.
Love Dave.
For the first time, he'd ended his letter with 'love'. Again, I decided to stop writing for a little while. I hoped he'd torture himself with the thought he might have scared Patsy off. I always bore in mind the adage, 'treat them mean, keep them keen'.
In a short time, I'd expanded considerably the haulage business I managed in Peterborough. It took up more and more of my time. My working day grew even longer, to the point where my job began to affect my relationship with Emma. Her mother had recently been killed in a tragic accident and, when I wasn't at home, she felt isolated and lonely.
On top of everything, when we went out to relax in Basildon I'd sometimes be confronted by unwelcome ghosts from my Raquels past, one of them being a small-time drug dealer with a grandiose self-image called John Rollinson. This gnat, who likes to call himself 'Gaffer', has described himself publicly as the most dangerous man in the country, proving at least that he's got a sense of humour.
I'd heard he was unhappy that I'd named one of his drug-peddling friends at the Leah Betts trial. He'd then told lots of people he was 'after' me and was going to 'do' me. One evening, Emma and I went to a nightclub in Basildon called Jumping Jacks. When we entered the club, I found myself confronted by a scruffy degenerate calling me a 'fucking cunt'. It took me a little while to realise that this was in fact Gaffer. His appearance had changed drastically since I'd last sniffed his body odour. His ravaged face now bore cruel testimony to the perils of a lowlife existence spent popping pills and sniffing coke.
To cut a long story short, he squirted me in the eyes with ammonia. As I stood in front of him, temporarily blinded, he had the best chance he was ever going to get to 'do' me. He failed to take it and, as I prepared to sink my double-bladed, 12-inch combat knife into his head, he screamed hysterically and ran away.
The incident had been partly captured on CCTV cameras, and I was arrested and charged with threatening unlawful violence and possessing an offensive weapon. The charges were eventually dropped, but this minor incident on top of everything else made me realise that to escape the shadows of 1995, Emma and I would have to leave Basildon. We decided to move to Peterborough, where I continued my correspondence with the nail-bomber.
Copeland wrote again. He, too, had a new address - Broadmoor Special Hospital for the criminally insane.
Patsy,
How are you, I haven't heard from you in quit awhile, I hope I didn't scare you off in my last letter but it's the way I feel, Ive been moved to broadmore, this place is mental, I dont think ill be staying hear long thou, If you want me to phone tell me in your next letter and ill do so, it would be so good to hear your voice and would cheer me up, so what you up to in Peterborough, this place is full of lunatics, one off them is hear for killing sheep then shagging them, its so easy hear, but I can't wait to get back to belmarsh back to doing hard time, Its because of who i am, a soldier, someone who thrives on hardships, I sit hear and think about what we could of done together, so many exciting things I could teach you, make you feel alive, not the boring things ordinary people get up to, but dangerous things, ill hope I will hear from you soon,
Dave.
I noticed he hadn't signed this letter with love. Perhaps he felt he'd been too mushy in his last letter: he was, after all, a soldier. In my next letter, Patsy returned to her cheerful and exuberant self. Her only worry was that she wasn't going to enjoy Christmas. I also acknowledged his move to Broadmoor by saying Patsy feared for his safety with all those dangerous lunatics around him. At the same time, Patsy started referring to him as 'my little soldier'.
Patsy said she hoped her letters cheered him up. She added she wanted to write more intimately about her feelings, but feared having her words read by strange men in the censor's office. She needed to feel sure any words of intimacy would be read by him alone.
On 3 December, Copeland sent a traditional Christmas card with a jolly Father Christmas on the front holding a tree and presents. Inside, he wrote:
Dear Patsy,
How are you doing, I am doing fine, Your right your letters do cheer me up in these trying times.
Sorry to hear your not going to enjoy christmass, it's Better when your young,
Look to the future and the millenium, as next year is going to be a lot different to this one, I promise you,
Being assessed is a horrible concept, being in someones power, I wish I was in your power Patsy having to do what you say sounds like heaven,
Ill be back in court by next January and then back to belmarsh, this place isnt scary at all its full of divs, I know how you feel about writing your feelings down on paper for some pervert to read in the censor's office,
Anyway try and enjoy yourself at christmass,
Until we meet,
Love Dave.
I noticed that 'my little soldier' had returned to the 'love Dave'. He'd even added two little hearts. The following week, on 12 December, he wrote again:
Dear Patsy,
How are you, Just a quick letter to let you know im alright, Im thinking about what Christmas present im going to send you, I though ill get you a nice watch Tick tock tick tock something that will remind you of me, I don't need much in hear maybe some nice photos of you, I know you would like to send me some bad photos but they won't let me have them (Bastards), Im still
trying to get your number cleared hopefully it wont be to long, Your letters are the only thing that keeps me going in hear, they drive me mad knowing I can't talk to you, hold you, make love to you, pleasure you, teach you, anyway thats all for know, thinking of you,
Dave.
I felt our correspondence had fallen into a rut. I had to get him to stop writing as some sex-starved soldier from the front. I needed to get him bragging about his murderous exploits. His bomb-timer joke ('tick-tock-tick-tock') pointed to his pride in his achievements. I felt sure he wanted to talk about what he'd done. Or did he? I began to wonder if he might be playing mind games with me, holding out morsels, then snatching them away. In my next letter, I made clear that with his reference to 'bad photos' he'd delivered yet another blow to Patsy's modesty: she wasn't some porno slut. Yes, she'd indicated she wanted to write to him more intimately, but she'd only meant about romance and nice things and who he was and what he'd done. I sandwiched the criticism between slabs of praise and respect. He replied on 20 December:
Dear Patsy,
Sorry about my last letter but you must realise that its driving me Mad not being able to see you,
I was thinking the other day that we could of bean a bonny and Clyde having so much fan, I hope you are ok and are looking forward to the millenium.
How are things with you, do you Enjoy Peterborough, what sort of things are you getting up to, will you be seeing your family or just a few friends at Xmass, I wonder if you have got my present yet, it should be there soon,
Things here are no good, I can't believe that I have fooled all the doctors, Anyway, take care of your self, I hope to hear from you soon,
David
His response gave me a better Christmas present than the one he was promising (and which never arrived). Fooled the doctors? I knew instantly he'd written something he'd come to regret.
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