Beyond All Evil
Page 1
BEYOND
ALL EVIL
June Thomson & Giselle Ross
with Marion Scott and Jim McBeth
Copyright
Harper Press
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published by HarperElement 2011
© June Thomson, Giselle Ross, Marion Scott and Jim McBeth 2011
The authors assert the moral right to be
identified as the authors of this work.
A catalogue record of this book is
available from the British Library.
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Source ISBN 9780007438518
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2011 ISBN: 9780007438525
Version: 2018-07-13
Dedication
To little Jay-Jay, Paul, Ryan and Michelle –
forever innocent, forever loved
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Foreword
Prologue: Fairy Shoes and Toy Soldiers
Chapter 1 - Beginnings
Chapter 2 - Love of Our Lives
Chapter 3 - Moths to a Flame
Chapter 4 - Rings on Our Fingers
Chapter 5 - Closer to the Flame
Chapter 6 - I Take This Man
Chapter 7 - The Honeymoon Is Over
Chapter 8 - The Way It Is
Chapter 9 - Even in Darkness
Chapter 10 - Nothing Ever Changes
Chapter 11 - Behind Painted Smiles
Chapter 12 - A Deeper, Darker Place
Chapter 13 - If Only ... (June)
Chapter 14 - This Child of Mine
Chapter 15 - So Alone
Chapter 16 - Why Didn’t We Walk Away?
Chapter 17 - These Special Gifts
Chapter 18 - The Joy They Brought
Chapter 19 - Beginning of the End
Chapter 20 - The Final Straw
Chapter 21 - If Only ... (Giselle)
Chapter 22 - Saturday 3 May
Chapter 23 - Mummy Can’t Fix It Now
Chapter 24 - Tranquillisers and Sympathy
Chapter 25 - In the Arms of an Angel
Chapter 26 - Tell Me Why
Chapter 27 - Revenge
Chapter 28 - Brutal and Merciless
Chapter 29 - Cold and Evil
Chapter 30 - Reaching for the Light
Chapter 31 - The Kindness of Strangers
Chapter 32 - The Love They Left Behind
Chapter 33 - This Sisterhood of Ours
Afterword by Ian Stephen
Moved by Giselle and June's story?
Help and Support for Victims
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
About the Publisher
Foreword
What follows is a conversation between two mothers who are leading each other from the darkness to the light.
Before they were united by two unspeakable acts of evil, June Thomson and Giselle Ross did not know each other. Today they are the closest of friends. In their hearts they wish they had not been brought together by incomparable loss, but now that they have found each other they are able to walk together towards a future neither of them believed was possible.
Only Giselle can appreciate how June has suffered; only June can understand the monumental effort it takes for her friend to rise and face each new day. This bond has already saved their lives, dragging them back from the edge of madness and giving them the courage to endure unimaginable pain.
On the same day, a few miles apart, June and Giselle’s estranged husbands, Rab Thomson and Ashok Kalyanjee, murdered their children. The men were not driven by rage. The killings were planned and carried out with precision, and designed to crush the women they had once dominated.
The names of the lost innocents are Ryan and Michelle Thomson, and Paul and Jay Ross, whom you will come to know and love as little ‘Jay-Jay’. Ryan was seven. His sister, Michelle, was 25, a wonderfully innocent woman-child, who had an intellectual age equivalent to that of her brother. Paul was six and lived for Spiderman. Jay-Jay was two, he loved Bob the Builder, and was still wrestling with the mysterious joys of a world in which he would not grow up.
Their fathers were the worst of all predators, perfect examples of what has become known as the ‘family annihilator’ – parents who kill their own children in an unfathomable act of revenge.
It is a psychological syndrome that is becoming disturbingly prevalent, but which no mother’s intuition or father’s sixth sense can predict.
According to the eminent clinical and forensic psychologist Ian Stephen, such killers are now responsible for more than one-third of all child murders. Throughout the pages of this book – and after the mothers’ story has been told – Stephen will offer his professional insight into the minds of the murderers and the women who once loved them.
It may seem a bitter irony that, while their crimes have united their wives, Thomson and Kalyanjee have also been brought together. They languish in the same jail, where they have yet to offer any explanation or display remorse. Their silence continues to devastate both June and Giselle, for no power on earth can erase the misguided guilt they have assumed – the belief that somehow they should have known.
The mothers have lived with that erroneous belief since their children were killed. At least they are now insulated by sisterhood and the memories of the happy times with their children.
They have been empowered, each giving the other the strength to tell their unique story – the first true account of family annihilators by women who lived with them and survived.
It is a warning and a cautionary tale, but above all it is a story of love and a testament to the human spirit.
Both women endured dreadfully unhappy marriages. June’s life with Thomson was a dark, turbulent and miserable existence, characterised by mental torture, physical violence and even rape. Giselle’s relationship with Kalyanjee had been a strange and remote affair, of lives spent apart before, during and after their marriage.
In spite of this, their relationships produced treasured children. But on one terrible Saturday in May, the last normal day of their lives, the misery of their marriages swiftly receded into the past.
Both women were on the threshold of a new future. They no longer wanted or needed the men who had ruled their lives but they believed it was important for their children to maintain a relationship with their fathers.
If only they hadn’t. The consequences of their trust were unutterably appalling.
This is the story of the parallel journeys that took them to that terrible day when they and their children became the prey of two monsters in our midst.
Marion Scott and Jim McBeth
Prologue: Fairy Shoes and
Toy Soldiers
June: Shoes for Michelle. I had to have them.
Fairy shoes. They glistened with a life o
f their own, as if they could dance from the shelf. The shop lights, bright and harsh, caused their red, glittering surface to shimmer. Shoes for a princess. Shoes for my Michelle. I could picture my daughter, laughing with delight, her dark-blonde curls streaming behind her as she flew to the wardrobe to pick a party dress to match these beautiful Wizard of Oz shoes.
Christmas music flowed from hidden speakers. Garlands and decorations hung from every wall. I was in a crowded place but, until a few moments ago, I had never felt so alone. Excited voices overwhelmed me, the sounds of mothers, fathers, grandparents and children making plans for the big day. So much excitement to contain, so much to look forward to. I could almost smell cinnamon and spiced apple, the memories of Christmases past.
The room was alive but I had felt dead for so long now. Yet somehow these shoes had brought me to life. I had to have them. They were in my hand. In my bag. Michelle would be so pleased. So pleased.
The part of my brain that knew my Michelle was gone had shut down. A voice spoke to me from very far away. A woman’s voice.
‘Who are the shoes for, June?’
The use of my name suggests familiarity, but I don’t think I know her. It’s become a common occurrence. Since it happened, everyone knows me.
‘Michelle,’ I answer, still under the spell of the shoes.
‘You’ve put them in your bag, love.’
‘I know. I have to have them,’ I said, walking to the door of the shop. I could hear Michelle’s laugh, see her face and imagine her pulling on the shoes. Running to the mirror. My beautiful, damaged daughter with the body of a woman and the mind of a child.
Outside the shop. Assailed by the winter cold. Then a new voice, harsh, authoritative.
‘Madam! I have reason to believe you have goods you have not paid for. Would you open your bag?’
I do what he asks. He fingers the shoes.
‘You can’t have them! They’re for Michelle!’ I tell him.
‘You’ll have to come with me!’
I follow. Everyone is looking, shocked expressions, judging faces. They don’t understand. Tears prick my eyes. The spell of the shoes is broken. I can see the man’s face clearly now.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I deserve to be punished. I took the shoes. I had to have them. Can I pay for them, now?’
His face tells me what I already know.
‘I have money,’ I add, showing him my purse containing £160.
In my mind, I try to tell him I couldn’t go to the cash desk. They would have recognised me. They know my daughter is dead. They would have told me Michelle was gone. I was suddenly cold. I wanted to go home.
A policeman and policewoman had arrived. I recognised the woman from the days following the murder of my son and daughter. She spoke quietly to her colleague, who then had a hushed conversation with the store detective.
‘Come with us, June,’ said the policeman.
His voice was not unkind. The fairy shoes were gone. They had taken them from me.
It was cold on the car journey to the police station. We passed beneath blurred neon signs that gave only the appearance of warmth. The police station was as brightly lit as the store had been but it was stark, devoid of decoration. I stood before the imposing figure of the desk officer.
How did I get here? How did I get to this?
The big man looked at me. He was conflicted. I was ostensibly a thief, but a very different kind of thief from those he usually dealt with.
‘Time you went home, Mrs Thomson,’ he said.
I walked away, my face burning with shame.
Now I was at home, sitting in the dark, the illumination of the street lights washing the mantelpiece and the framed photographs of Ryan and my Michelle. I cried.
What on earth had I wanted with fairy shoes?
Giselle: I know why! The same reason I buy toys for my babies.
They lie before me on the cold, hard ground, frozen to the earth in their packaging, these gifts that I have chosen so carefully for my sons. Spiderman for Paul; Bob the Builder for little Jay-Jay. Toys that will never be played with by boys who will never grow up.
As the seasons come and go, the colour of the packaging fades, the boxes disintegrate. My babies know they are there. Michelle would have known, too, about the glittery new shoes.
I never miss a Christmas, or a birthday. Wherever they are, they all know – Paul and Jay-Jay, Michelle and Ryan. They know. That knowledge keeps us going.
There were days when I prayed for death to take me to them. I hated the winter nights and the coming of darkness when they locked the gates of the cemetery and I had to leave my boys. I would go home and ask God to allow me to be with them. But morning inevitably came and I was still here. Part of me was glad. It allowed me to resume my vigil.
So I sit here on the hill, where my sons rest, embraced in each other’s arms beneath two marble teddy bears. And so it will go on, as long as I have breath. On a clear day, I can see in the distance the prison where their killer was taken – their father.
On the day they were laid to rest, I knew he was there – but there was no communication, no word of remorse, no flowers for his dead sons. I still do not know if, to this day, he knows where they lie. It is of no consequence to me. As long as I know, as long as I am close to them, keeping them safe in death as I could not do in life.
I am the sentinel.
I have only been absent on a few days. Those were the days when I tried to end it all. Now I will never miss a day. I have stopped trying to kill myself with cuts to my wrist, pills swallowed by the handful. I have come to realise that suicide should not be my destiny.
People know where to find me. I am surrounded by the thousands who passed away long before my babies. I embrace myself against the cold. I bake in the sunshine. I lower my head against the rain. The doctors tell me I torture myself, perpetuate my anguish. They don’t understand.
I watch for signs from my sons – the wind that drives the windmills on their grave speaks to me in their voices. The marble teddy bears watch me with unblinking eyes. Gold-leaf inscriptions on their bodies record the names of my sons. Spring, summer, autumn and winter, flowers decorate the resting place.
When my babies were first placed there, I wanted to climb in beside them. Now this graveside is my sanctuary. When I arrive each morning I tell them my news, such as it is. They know I am here and what I bring – the small, bright pebbles, the toys, the gifts to place beside them.
Before I leave I repeat the words I had inscribed on the teddy bears. To Paul: ‘Goodnight my little angel, love Mummy xx.’ To Jay-Jay: ‘Goodnight my precious baby, love Mummy xx.’
I want them to know that Mummy is with them and that she loves them. When they had needed me most, on the day the monster took them from me, I had not been there.
My babies, if only I had known, I would have thrown myself in front of his knife, offering my life for yours. I promise I would have saved you. But I didn’t know, my babies, I didn’t know.
If only I had, if only …
Chapter 1
Beginnings
‘They would become the perfect prey for the perfect predators’
Ian Stephen, MA, Dip Ed, Dip Ed Psych, clinical and forensic psychologist
June: Did you ever doubt if you were loved? I did. I remember that cold feeling, as if it were yesterday …
Dad was in the kitchen. He was at the cooker. Something was wrong. Why was he making the dinner? Where was mum?
‘Dad?’ I asked.
He didn’t respond.
Something definitely wasn’t right. This tall, strong man at the heart of my life lit up whenever he saw any of his five children. No matter what drama was being enacted in our household, Dad could always be relied on to comfort us with his strong arms and soothe away our troubles in a gentle voice.
But he was silent and I was suddenly afraid. I couldn’t see his face, couldn’t read his eyes, but I knew even by the set of his shoulders that he was
burdened by an ineffable sadness.
I had barged in through the door, trailing early evening air and winter cold into the warm kitchen. I was elated. Teenage hormones and the adrenalin rush created by sprinting from school had made me feel quite giddy.
All the way home, my thoughts had danced with the delights of lipstick, boys and David Cassidy. I was madly in love with the American teen heartthrob – heaven forbid, it was the Seventies after all – and all I wanted to do was play my one and only record on the precious stereo Dad had given me for my birthday.
I had sung the words of ‘How Can I Be Sure’in my head on the journey. I longed to reach home, to rush to my room, to languish on my bed and let David’s velvet voice wash over me while I gazed adoringly at his poster on the wall. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
But David and my girlish crush on him were driven from my mind in an instant. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
I laid down my schoolbooks on the table and slipped into one of the chairs clustered around it. I traced confusion and concern with my finger tips on the Formica surface. I took a deep breath.
‘Dad?’ I said again. ‘What’s wrong? Something’s happened.’
He still wouldn’t turn round, still wouldn’t look at me. He had a spatula in his hand and he was using it to flick over meat in a frying pan.
‘Your mother’s gone,’ he replied in a voice that was weighed down by his obvious sadness.
‘Where?’ I said, rallying for an instant, believing that she must have left early for her beloved bingo hall.