by June Thomson
The room was crowded suddenly and hands grabbed at me, dragging me back from the window.
‘Please, please, please, let me go,’ I pleaded.
They lifted me in their arms and carried me through the shattered door.
‘Right, that’s it,’ roared Tam in a voice laced with both anger and concern. ‘You can’t stay here.’
‘Leave me,’ I moaned.
‘No! You’re coming to my house,’ he said.
I was returned to the sofa, where they stood over me like guards while Katie threw clothes into an overnight bag. In the end we could not go to Tam’s house. By now all of the family’s homes were besieged by the press. There was nowhere to hide for any of us, particularly me, for at long last the secrets that had held me hostage were revealed. Several of the reporters had mentioned to my family that Ash was my husband.
‘Is that true?’ Tam had asked me.
I nodded miserably. ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t bear to tell you. It just got harder as time went on. I didn’t want to disappoint you all.’
‘Oh, darlin’,’ he said, wrapping his arms around me.
What did any of it matter now, anyway?
When we arrived at the entrance door to the flats, police officers were on guard, denying entry to the media.
Tam spoke to the officers, explaining that he had to get me away from the place.
‘Wait inside,’ said one of the officers, who began speaking into the radio on his shoulder.
Within minutes, family liaison officers arrived to escort us from the building. The press pack parted without a word. They knew this was not a moment to blurt out insensitive questions.
The police had arranged for us to stay in a hotel in Stirling, well away from Glasgow. They believed it would offer me some respite from the pressures and give me time to come to terms with the tragedy. But how could anyone come to terms with this?
Later, I sat in the unfamiliar surroundings of an anonymous hotel room. I looked at the insipid cream walls. This could never be a home. There were no pictures of my boys, just pale prints in pastel colours.
‘Let me have them,’ said Katie.
‘What?’ I replied.
‘Their jammies,’ she said.
I was still clutching my boys’ pyjamas. They hadn’t left my hand since the moment I had arrived home. I wasn’t even conscious they were there. They had become part of me. I looked down at my hands. The pyjamas were damp from my tears. I held them to my face. My babies’ smell was fainter now. I was losing them.
A wave of panic.
‘I have to see them,’ I said.
‘No, no, no,’ Katie said. ‘That’s been taken care of. Remember them the way they were.’
‘I have to see them,’ I repeated.
‘Don’t, love,’ said Tam. ‘Don’t torture yourself. Think of them playing, singing their wee songs. Please!’
‘Tam, I must see them.’
Tam was broken-hearted. My big brother had officially identified my sons. It must have taken every ounce of his strength to look down on their broken bodies.
I knew how much that must have cost him. He loved the boys. For some reason, Jay-Jay could never get his tongue around Tam’s name. When my brother appeared, Jay-Jay’s eyes would light up. He’d hold out his arms and shout, ‘Bam … Bam.’
It made us howl with laughter. In Glasgow, ‘bam’ is the vernacular for a well-meaning and jovial idiot.
‘That boy may be small but he’s got you sussed,’ we’d tease Tam.
Tam didn’t care. He was a gentle soul, but now he was playing the bluff big brother. If anyone understood my need to know what had happened, it was him. Since he had returned from identifying them, he had resolutely refused to discuss the nature of their deaths.
‘Tell me, Tam,’ I would demand.
‘Better to remember them singin’ and dancin’,’ Tam said, using another Glaswegian figure of speech.
However, it quickly became apparent to my family and the police that I would not be dissuaded from seeing my sons. On the Tuesday, three days after their deaths, they relented.
And now, here I was, in the place where my babies lay in death at the ages of six and two. They would never grow up, never go to university, never get jobs, never marry or bring me grandchildren. I had lost them forever.
My thoughts were interrupted by a voice that told me, ‘We’re here, Giselle.’
I returned to the present. We had reached a glass window that was masked by a Venetian blind.
‘Let me in there,’ I whispered.
‘You need to stay here,’ a voice said.
The blind rose slowly and, at last, I could see them, see what he had done.
My babies lay side by side on a table. Their little bodies were shrouded and only their heads were visible. They looked so helpless. I felt a moan rising from deep within me. I stifled it. The pain that took hold of me in that moment was too great to express with mere sound.
Little Jay-Jay looked serene. His face was at peace, as if he were only sleeping. But Paul’s face was a mask of fear. He appeared to have aged.
‘Let me in,’ I said urgently.
‘You have to stay here,’ the voice repeated.
‘I need to be with my babies,’ I said, pulling away from my minders.
‘Wait, wait,’ said a voice.
Strong arms held me, guided me.
‘Take her in,’ someone said.
I weakened with each step, needful of their support.
Finally, I was able to look down at my sons. Jay-Jay was lying to the left of Paul. His hair was tousled and there was an angelic expression on his face.
Whatever terror Paul experienced had followed him beyond his life. His face was contorted. It was the face of an old man.
My little Jay-Jay’s expression showed that he had passed from life to death quickly. I would learn later that Jay-Jay had been attacked first.
However, the last moments of Paul’s life were there for me to see. He had witnessed his father killing his little brother. Paul was too young and too small to save Jay-Jay, but he was old enough to know what was happening. It must have been terrifying for him, this child who had experienced nothing but love in his life.
His terror will haunt me for the rest of my days. It would be some time before I was able to properly take in the full horror that lay behind the clinical words of the post-mortem report prepared by forensic pathologists Robert Ainsworth and Marjorie Black.
As well as detailing everything Ash had done to my babies, the report described what police officers found when they discovered his silver Mercedes at the Campsie Fells the previous day. It read:
The body of Jay was found lying within the footwell of the nearside rear passenger seat, with the body of his brother also lying across the back seat and his father lying unresponsive in the driver’s seat. Jay was formally declared dead there at 19:10 hours.
There was a blue plastic dummy in the left side of his mouth. There was also a yellow-coloured football resting against his head. His body was warmish to the touch.
On the left side of his neck there was a single stab wound. The wound almost completely transacted the left internal jugular vein. The wound had then continued backwards to cut through the third cervical vertebral body, almost completely dividing this. The total length of the wound from the skin surface to its end point was approximately 5cm.
Jay had one other sharp cut on his right ring finger, potentially defensive in nature. It would appear that he survived for a brief period after the car fire started.
On opening the Mercedes-Benz car, there was a minor degree of fire damage within, particularly at the front. The body of Paul was found lying across the back seat of the car. He was formally declared dead at 19:10 hours.
On the front of his neck there were two deep stab wounds which appeared to pass into and through the left side of his neck.
There was a diagonal gaping through-and-through stab wound 4.2cm in length. The wound t
racked almost horizontally backwards and slightly towards the midline within the neck for a distance of approximately 7cm before exiting as a diagonal wound 3cm in length. On the front of the neck, an almost vertical gaping through-and-through stab wound 7.5cm in length. The wound tracked almost horizontally backwards and to the left within the neck, passing backwards for a distance of approximately 6cm before producing an exit wound 3.3cm in length.
The following injuries were identified: transaction of the right-sided neck-strap muscles, upper trachea, oesophagus, right common carotid artery, left common carotid artery, almost complete division of the 5th cervical vertebral body.
There were temporary ‘transfer’ tattoos on the outer aspect of his right upper arm and on the back of the left forearm. Patchy skin blistering on the sides and back of the neck, of each ear, and beneath the chin, singeing of the hair.
It would appear that [Paul] was no longer alive at the time of the fire.
Robert Ainsworth and Marjorie Black, ‘Post-mortem Report’,
University of Glasgow, 4 May 2008
It would be months before the true wickedness of the husband I had once loved was finally revealed. That would come when I learned of the tape message Ash had left behind.
As he sat in his car, with our babies playing in the rear seat, he had recorded, in a mixture of Punjabi and English, what he believed would be his last words:
‘Death is near …’ (Ashok Kalyanjee, speaking in Punjabi. Approximately 12.45 p.m., 3 May 2008, Crow Road, Lennoxtown, East Dunbartonshire)
When he spoke in Punjabi it was to mask the true nature of his evil intent. Perhaps the greatest horror was that he also spoke to our sons in English, telling them what a wonderful day they were going to have.
‘We’re going to have a very good game today, very good fun today, babies.’ (Ashok Kalyanjee, speaking in English)
My babies must have looked at their father with trusting eyes. It had only been a week since we had all been there together, in that very same spot, when I had laughed and played with them.
‘This is a very big story. Its purpose is that I’m speaking in Punjabi because my children are with me. If I speak English, they would understand … Today is the last day.’
How could the world have turned upside-down in just seven days? He must have been drunk by then. He had taken with him a bottle of vodka, a can of petrol and the knife. What had transformed Ash into a monster?
‘We’re going to live together. Nobody can separate us.’ (In English)
It must have seemed like a game to the children, their father changing between their language and his own. How could they have known that his words were a death sentence?
‘This death is near. I have become a gambler, a drunk. Nothing has become of me.’ (In Punjabi)
His intentions would have been inconceivable to an adult, never mind two innocent little mites. Once he had completed his hellish message, he would throw the tape machine out of the car window and take another swig of vodka.
And then he murdered my children.
Afterwards, he phoned me to tell me that I would regret what I had done to him in this life. He poured petrol on himself and then on the car, which he set alight.
Now, in the mortuary, as strong hands prevented me from falling, I could see the evidence of the fire on the body of my little Paul. He had burn marks to his face and his eyelashes were gone. It was no comfort to me to know that the injuries were caused after he was dead.
‘Mummy can’t fix it now,’ I whispered. ‘Mummy can’t fix it.’
‘Time to go, Giselle,’ said a voice.
I had to leave them now. My first instinct was to struggle, but I knew I had to leave them and I allowed myself to be led away from my babies. The corridor stretched before us.
‘Don’t let me go,’ I said.
‘We won’t,’ a gentle voice replied.
I turned, looked through the glass partition for a final glimpse at my boys. The blind fell. For a second, I was almost convinced that the last taped words spoken by Ash were written across it.
‘These children are mine and they go with me.’
Chapter 24
Tranquillisers and Sympathy
‘The classic family annihilator tends to wipe out the whole family. I believe Shaun would have been Rab’s first victim, especially as he defended his mother. He is extremely lucky to have survived.’
Ian Stephen
June: I understand why you had to see what Ash did. I wouldn’t know for a long time, and I couldn’t let go of my Michelle and Ryan.
It was so cold in this garden of the dead. Even in the sunshine, even draped in its mantle of serenity with its brightly coloured flowers, its burnished brass plaques and symbols of faith, the closeness of death was overpowering and claustrophobic.
My Michelle and Ryan had been taken, but in my heart they were still so alive that I could not countenance leaving them in this place. I was alone for the moment, or as alone as one can be in the aftermath of a funeral. I had withdrawn from my family and the hundreds of mourners who had come to pay their last respects at the crematorium in Kirkcaldy.
I was, of course, grateful for their care, their kindness and their compassion, but being alone was a welcome respite from the sad expressions and words of sympathy that were incapable of assuaging my pain. In that blessed moment of peace, the smell of the sea wafted from the Firth of Forth. It was fresh, full of hope, so near but yet so far from this place of dry, grey ashes and solemn remembrance. I decided then that I would keep my children with me for the time being. Their earthly bodies were gone, but at least a part of them remained. I could, if I wished, have had their ashes interred in this garden. But I wouldn’t. They would come home with me until I found a place where I believed they would be at rest. I knew I would find it, eventually.
Throughout my life, even in its darkest moments, I have always sensed a connection to something beyond me. A higher power? A life beyond this one? Don’t ask me what it is because I don’t know. But it feels somehow as if I have been guided.
A sudden flash of memory carried me back to a few weeks before the murders, when I had taken Michelle to the local health centre for one of her regular check-ups. I was standing in the car park waiting for her. I could see the interior of the centre through huge glass windows. I would have to wait a bit longer, I realised. Michelle was saying her goodbyes. This ritual involved visiting every member of staff, and offering them a kiss and a cheery farewell.
I smiled, as I always did. They say that whatever nature takes away, it leaves something else in its place. Nature had taken much from Michelle but it had been replaced with a bottomless well of love.
I was still watching when a quiet voice said, ‘They are very special, aren’t they?’
I had been joined by an old grey-haired lady. I do not know where she came from. She was not looking at me. The old woman was looking through the glass at Michelle.
I followed her gaze and said, ‘I know exactly what you mean.’
‘God only gives them to us for a very short time,’ she went on.
When I turned back to look at the old woman she was gone. I shivered. I thought, ‘This is weird.’ I couldn’t work out where she had disappeared to.
‘Mum!’ a voice cried, and the spell was broken. Michelle had burst through the doors of the centre and was walking towards me with her unsteady gait.
Now, weeks later, as I sat in the peace of the garden, I thought again about the old woman. What had it been? A warning? A premonition?
Today, I was dry-eyed. God knows, I had drenched the world with my tears since Michelle and Ryan had been taken from me. Could it only have been 13 days since I found them? Less than two weeks since I had run from that house of horrors? A mere hiccup in time since I had witnessed the callous, calculating smirk on Rab’s face as he was carried on a stretcher from the carnage?
Only 13 days.
They had passed in a blur of tranquillisers and sympathy. I felt s
o tired. I closed my eyes.
I returned to Muiredge.
Flashing lights washing the walls of the house – blue, red, blue, red, blue, red. The wail of sirens in the distance drowning my screams. The minute, the hour, the day of my life I will never escape.
A strident voice in my left ear. ‘June … June … Look at me!’
A policeman. I was in the rear seat of a police car. I couldn’t remember how I got there from the ambulance.
‘My children! Ryan! Michelle! He’s won!’
‘Who’s won, June?’ The policeman.
‘Rab! He’s won!’
A moment of panic. ‘Where’s Ross?’ I demanded.
‘It’s all right,’ the policeman said. ‘He’s being looked after.’
‘I can’t leave him on his own,’ I said.
‘Ross is fine,’ said the soft, reassuring voice. ‘Don’t worry about him, June. You’re safe now. We’re going to the police station soon and you can tell us what happened.’
‘Rab killed them. He killed my Michelle and Ryan,’ I wailed.
I turned my head, looking out of the window of the vehicle. A sea of faces. Linda. My sister was on the edge of the crowd, held back by a police cordon.
‘Linda,’ I said. ‘That’s my sister over there.’
She must have raced to Muiredge after my hysterical phone call.
‘You’ll see Linda soon,’ said the officer.
A flash of white dragged my eyes from the dark interior of the car. Ghostly hooded figures in coveralls had appeared, as if from nowhere.
‘Forensic teams,’ said the policeman, in reply to an unasked question.
I felt his hand on my arm. ‘Don’t,’ said the officer gently, easing my hands away from my clothes. I had been kneading my top. I looked down.
‘Blood!’ I said. ‘Blood!’
‘We’ll get you a change of clothes. Just hang on,’ said the policeman.
‘So much blood … But it wasn’t me. I didn’t kill them,’ I blurted out. ‘I didn’t kill my Michelle and Ryan.’