You Could Do Something Amazing with Your Life [You Are Raoul Moat]

by Andrew Hankinson

  You Could Do Something Amazing With Your Life

  [You are Raoul Moat]

  Andrew Hankinson is a journalist who was born, raised, and lives in Newcastle upon Tyne. He started his career as a staff writer at Arena magazine and is now a freelance feature writer who has contributed to the Observer Magazine, The Guardian, Wired, GQ, Esquire, FHM, Huffington Post, Loaded, Cosmopolitan, Grazia, The Independent, Men’s Health, FT Weekend Magazine, New Statesman, and The Spectator. Andrew has appeared on Newsnight, Daily Politics, BBC Radio 3, Radio 4, and Radio 5 Live.

  Scribe Publications

  18-20 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria 3056, Australia

  2 John St, Clerkenwell, London, WC1N 2ES, United Kingdom

  First published by Scribe 2016

  Copyright © Andrew Hankinson 2016

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book.

  Every effort has been made to trace the copyright holder of the cover image and to obtain their permission for the use of that material. The publisher would be grateful if notified of any credits that should be incorporated in future reprints or editions of this book.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  9781925106558 (Australian paperback)

  9781922247919 (UK paperback)

  9781925113754 (e-book)

  CIP records for this title are available from the British Library and the National Library of Australia

  scribepublications.com.au

  scribepublications.co.uk

  To my wife and children

  A questionnaire arrives from the Regional Department of Psychotherapy. There are seventeen pages of questions. They want you to complete your answers and send it back before your first appointment with a psychologist.

  It’s 2008. You sit in the house and write your surname, first name, date of birth, address, age and telephone number. On the next page you describe your symptoms,

  I FEEL TIRED, ANXIOUS, ISOLATED, HELPLESS, ANGRY. I FIND IT DIFFICULT TO SLEEP OR RELAX

  It asks how these symptoms affect your life. You write,

  THEY STOP MY LIFE FROM PROGRESSING CONSTRUCTIVELY. I AM AGGRESSIVE AND VIOLENT OUTSIDE THE HOME IF PROVOKED

  It asks why you think this happens. You write about the bad parts of your childhood, police harassment, having no family support, worrying about your children’s future, and feeling alone.

  It asks what you enjoy and what your achievements have been.

  I ENJOY BEING A DAD. MY CHILDREN ARE MY GREATEST ACHIEVEMENT. HAVING THE MORALS I HAVE. NOT LOSING THE PLOT AND BEING IN JAIL. I ENJOY MY RELATIONSHIP

  It asks what you’ve found most difficult in life and what has brought the least satisfaction.

  KEEPING MY COOL HAS BEEN MOST DIFFICULT. NOT GIVING MY KIDS AND GIRLFRIEND A BETTER LIFE WITH ME

  It asks about your family history. You write that your father is UNKNOWN. You write your mum’s name and age. In the siblings box you write ANGUS. For his occupation and marital status you put UNKNOWN. It asks about your relationship with your dad. You write STEPFATHER and underline it. You write five lines about him. It asks about your relationship with your mum. You write nine lines.

  On the next page it says,

  It would help us to know something of your background. Could you tell us something about your childhood and family including any changes or separations that you experienced? Were any relationships especially important to you, for example with brothers, sisters, grandparents, aunts or uncles?

  You write,

  LOOK, I’M NOW REALLY PISSED OFF BECAUSE THESE QUESTIONS SHOULD BE DISCUSSED IN PERSON, AWAY FROM MY MRS AND KIDS, SO THEY DON’T HAVE TO SEE ME WOUND UP ABOUT THINGS I CHOOSE TO NOT THINK ABOUT. I CAN EXPRESS MYSELF BETTER IN PERSON AND SEE THIS AS TOTALLY DISMISSIVE AND UNCARING, AND WAS ABOUT TO CHUCK THESE FORMS IN THE BIN, BUT WROTE THIS COS I NEED THE HELP. IT IS GOING TO TAKE AN EFFORT FOR ME TO DO ALL THIS, SO CONTACT ME AND I’LL DISCUSS WHATEVER YOU WANT. I DO NOT WISH TO DISCUSS MY LIFE WITH PAPER

  You turn the page.

  It asks about your schools. You list them.

  It asks about previous employment.

  ENGINEERING (MECHANICAL). DOOR SUPERVISOR. MECHANIC

  It asks about current employment.

  UNEMPLOYED AT PRESENT. COULD DO EXTREMELY WELL IF THE POLICE DID NOT PUT THE MIX IN SO MUCH, DESPITE NOT EVEN HAVING A CAUTION TO MY NAME. STRONG EVIDENCE TO BACK THIS UP

  It asks about difficulties at work. You leave it blank.

  The next page is domestic life. You write that you’ve been living with Sam for three years. She’s nineteen years old. It asks about your previous significant relationships. You put that you were seeing Marissa from 1998 until 2004. She’s the mother of your two eldest children. You write that you have three children and Sam is the mother of the youngest. You describe your relationship as extremely loving and rewarding.

  The next page asks about your relationship with Sam. You write that it’s strong and there are no worrying problems. She’s honest, faithful and decent. You write that there isn’t much space to put all the good stuff in here. For the bad stuff you put,

  CAN RELY ON ME TOO MUCH, AND BELIEVES I CAN TAKE ON THE WORLD AND FIX EVERYTHING

  The next section is health. You write that you have asthma and need more help with it. You write that there was a recent accident where your hand got crushed, shattering the bones. It has not healed properly and doesn’t work properly. It looks terrible.

  You don’t drink or take non-prescribed drugs.

  It asks,

  Have you ever tried to harm yourself in any way?

  YES

  You underline it twice.

  2 OVERDOSES

  It asks if you’ve had psychiatric treatment or care in the past.

  NO

  It asks if you’ve had counselling or psychotherapy.

  YES. COLLINGWOOD COURT FOR 12 MONTHS AS REFERRED BY DOCTOR

  Can you say what it is about yourself that you want to change?

  I DON’T WISH TO CHANGE ANYTHING. HAVE A CALMER FRAME OF MIND AND EMOTIONAL STATE MAYBE

  It asks how you expect the treatment to help and what form you imagine it taking.

  I HAVE NO IDEA. KNOWING MY LUCK IT WILL BE ALL STRAIGHT JACKETS, ELECTRICITY TO THE HEAD AND A CAGE

  The final page asks for any other information. You leave it blank.

  You send the questionnaire back to them.

  A few days later a letter arrives. You’ve got an appointment with a trainee clinical psychologist on April 29, 2008.

  You don’t attend.

  Another letter arrives. It says they don’t normally reschedule appointments, but they know this is hard for you, so they’re offering you another appointment. It’s on May 13, 2008.

  You don’t attend.

  You are discharged from the waiting list.

  Two years later you shoot three people and shoot yourself. You will be called a monster. You will be called evil. The prime minister, David Cameron, will stand up in Parliament and say you were a callous murderer, end of story. You have nine days and your whole life to prove you are more than a callous murderer.

&nb
sp; Go.

  [THURSDAY JULY 1, 2010]

  YOU WILL DIE IN EIGHT DAYS

  They release you from prison at 10.55am. The North East is bright and sunny [as it often isn’t]. Your mission [as you explained it to another prisoner] is to get the gun, shoot Sam, shoot her new boyfriend, shoot Sam’s mum for trying to split you up, shoot the social worker who pissed you off, shoot the psychiatrist for giving you a negative report [though you can’t remember their name] and point the gun at the police until they shoot you.

  Stevie [a friend] picks you up at Durham Prison and drives you to Fenham [a suburb in the West End of Newcastle upon Tyne]. The local bricks are red. There are green trees and gardens. You live at 128 Fenham Hall Drive, a semi-detached [council] house with a garden and a bus stop outside the front gate — which you wrote to the council to complain about, because junkies hang around the bus stop injecting heroin and throwing needles over your wall, crowds of school kids make access to your property hazardous, teenagers congregate there at night to drink, swear, fight and abuse, someone destroyed your £565 leylandii, and the covert camera in your hedge recorded drunken teenagers having sex in your garden, Lambrini bottles getting thrown at your house, and people vandalising your vehicles and the bus stop, footage and stills of which you handed to Northumbria Police [at the end of the letter you add that you want to build a driveway and getting planning permission would be easier if they moved the bus stop].

  Stevie drops you off. You look around. It doesn’t feel like home anymore. The garden is overgrown. Maybe you’ve come out of prison a different kid. You walk inside. Karl appears with his girlfriend [Tara]. You say hello. They say hello.

  Karl’s a good friend [his full name’s Karl Ness and he’s twenty-six years old]. He does odd jobs for you. He’s been staying at your house to feed the dogs, pay the bills and keep things tidy, but everything looks dirty and unkempt. He passes you the phone. He says the gun is at Lana’s house [Tara’s daughter]. You tell him to go and get it.

  Karl and Tara leave. It’s lunchtime. You don’t feel like eating. You haven’t felt like eating for weeks. You walk across the road to the barber’s and ask for a Mohican, like Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver. The barber starts to cut your hair. You look in the mirror. Your face is tired and gaunt. You don’t look well. Prison made you ill. You tell the barber and anyone listening that you’ve just done a stretch and will probably be back inside by Friday [tomorrow] because you’ve got arses to kick [nobody laughs].

  Ha ha ha

  The barber finishes your hair. You walk home and sit on the couch. Karl gets back with the gun. It’s in a blue bag. You take it out. It’s an old sawn-off shotgun, double-barrelled, with one barrel over the other. Karl sorted it out while you were inside [you supervised via the prison phone, being careful as you knew the calls were recorded]. The cartridges are in the bag.

  You drive to town, which is only five minutes away. You park on Grey Street [in the city centre] and walk to Bagnall & Kirkwood [a gun and tackle shop] where you buy fishing weights [at 2.09pm] — just small metal spheres, like ball bearings.

  You drive home. Karl and Sean are in the street [Sean is Karl’s friend; his real name’s Qhuram Awan; he’s a twenty-three-year-old bouncer; you’ve met him a few times]. They load your BMW onto the recovery truck. They’re taking it to get repaired because Karl, like a monkey in a rocket ship, put normal cooking oil in it rather than the special biodiesel you manufacture in the garden. You help them load it onto the truck and go inside.

  You call Sam. Sometimes it’s hard to get a signal in the house because of the lead-lined bricks, but you get through and she answers, but she won’t listen. She just goes on about the puppies, saying how she can’t look after them so Karl needs to go to her house and pick them up, but you can’t go over there, and she shouts and hangs up, and you’re left thinking: Is this a bad dream? Where’s Sam gone? She was your best friend. Who was that? And you sit on the couch using a lock-knife to open the plastic casings of some of the shotgun cartridges. You remove the shot and put a fishing weight inside instead. You take some of the powder out too. You seal the casings back up and wonder how somebody who had it all ended up in a situation like this, everything just a pile of chaos.

  You phone the GP and book an appointment for Monday [nobody knows why]. Karl gets back. He’s fixed the BMW. He sits on the other couch. You Google Sam’s new boyfriend. You know he teaches karate, and you guess the classes are somewhere near Sam’s new house [she lives in Birtley, just over the river, south of Gateshead].

  You type on the laptop,

  taekwondo Birtley

  Chester le street martial arts

  martial arts clubs durham

  You get the names of five possible dojos [church halls and sports centres] as well as instructors. It’s hard to know the right one. Maybe it’s this one, William McElhone [it isn’t]. You call Birtley Leisure Centre for confirmation, but they’re no help, so you write the addresses on a piece of paper and hand it to Karl and walk out to the van [at 7pm] with the gun in a bin-liner. Karl programmes the addresses into the TomTom and you drive onto the A1, over the river, past the Metrocentre, turning off by the Angel of the North. Karl’s phone keeps beeping. It’s Tara. He texts back and calls her a psycho.

  You drive to each dojo and do your recon, but it’s getting late [10pm] and all the classes have finished, so you abort the mission and drive to Tesco’s car park for a debrief [in Chester-le-Street, a small town three miles south of Birtley]. Karl wants to see Tara, who’s at Lana’s house, so you drive to Lana’s in Lemington [back over the river, in the West End of Newcastle]. You go inside and Tara and Lana are in the sitting room. You tell them what Sam’s done to you and how she’s changed. Lana says you just need a good night out, but no, that’s not it. Karl drives you home.

  …

  It’s 11pm. You call Anth [Anthony Wright; you met him at a gym fourteen years ago and worked on the doors together; now he owns a garage in Byker; you earn money by using your recovery truck to drop off vehicles there; he’s thirty-four years old]. You talk to him for two hours. He’s your best friend and he’s been here for you before, particularly last year, when Sam moved out. It had you in bits, that. She left while you were at work, just disappeared and switched her phone off, giving you no option but to track her down, which you did, because there was stuff on Facebook, and you found out she was at her gran’s house and you drove down there and sat outside, but she wouldn’t come out, not until Anth got on the phone to her, and even then, when she came out [you had the gun on the passenger seat], she still wouldn’t agree to move back in, but Anth is always there for you, which you tried to say thank you for in the letter you wrote, back when things got bad [sorry for being a tit] but you never gave it to him [it was a suicide note], just like you never gave the others their letters, like the one to Karl [all tools etc are yours if you want], and one to Richard [you’re a good mate], another for Duncan [you are welcome to whichever dog you want], one to the council asking them to look after your kids [I have failed them both and don’t wish to do so any longer], and the longest to Sam [I don’t know what to say except I love you, always have and always will]. That night, when Sam wouldn’t move back in, Anth says he tried to call you, but you’d switched your phone off, so he thought you’d gone ahead with it [killed yourself], but eventually Sam agreed to see you. The point is, Anth helped a lot, because he knows your one weakness is women [you once visited a hypnotist to get over a girlfriend dumping you], but this time it’s not like that. It’s more than that. He can tell you’re depressed. Your voice is breaking. You’re thirty-seven years old, too old to start again. You’ve come out of prison with nothing. And for the first time he doesn’t have an answer. Tonight is unpleasant.

  …

  …

  There’s an attic upstairs. You were going to convert it into an office. And you told the girls you’d convert it into a dream be
droom for them. Not anymore. There’s a noose up there.

  …

  …

  You’re not going to kill yourself tonight. You’ll give it one last try with Sam. It’s you and her against the world.

  …

  You can’t sleep. You’ve always had trouble sleeping. You used to spend sleepless nights playing Xbox or looking through the keeping box of cards from the kids, watching the shopping channel, or the Mr Bean DVD, the one where he gets sent to an art gallery in America and they think he’s a boffin, but he hasn’t got a clue really. He ends up sneezing on Whistler’s Mother, and when he tries to rub it off with turps the painting blisters up, and they have a grand unveiling, but there’s just this terrible hand-drawn picture that he’s done instead of the masterpiece. It’s hilarious. You don’t always sit and laugh all the way through a film, but that’s one of the funniest things you’ve seen, definitely as good as Laurel & Hardy, which is the kind of humour you like, especially Them Thar Hills, which is their classic, where they get in a fight and double-team this guy by putting treacle down his pants. You like that sort of thing much more than modern humour, which you don’t get at all, though a mate sends you jokes all the time, and he’s not a racist, but there’s one he sent you about two Pakistanis in a people-carrier who have a fatal crash on the A1, and there’s outrage because there were five spare seats.

  Ha

  Another joke that’s stuck in your head over the years is about a tramp sitting in front of a jewellery shop. Suddenly an elephant comes along and kicks the shutter down, sucks up all the jewels through its trunk, and escapes down the street. A policeman turns up and asks the tramp if he saw anything. The tramp says, yes, he saw an elephant do it, and the policeman asks what the elephant looked like. The tramp says it just looked like an elephant. So the policeman says,

  Well, there’s two types of elephant. An African elephant has big ears and an Indian elephant has little ears. What kind was it?

  And the tramp says,