Chris Wild - Damaged: Heartbreaking stories of the kids trapped in Britains broken care system

CHRIS WILD

WITH NIKKI GIRVAN

Published by Blink Publishing
2.25, The Plaza,
535 Kings Road,
Chelsea Harbour,
London, SW10 0SZ

www.blinkpublishing.co.uk

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Paperback 978-1-911-600-64-0
Ebook 978-1-911-600-65-7

All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted or circulated in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing of the publisher.

A CIP catalogue of this book is available from the British Library.

Typeset by seagulls.net

Text copyright Chris Wild, 2018

Chris Wild has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This is a work of non-fiction but some names have been changed to protect the identity of the victims and survivors.

Every reasonable effort has been made to trace copyright holders of material reproduced in this book, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked the publishers would be glad to hear from them.

Blink Publishing is an imprint of the Bonnier Publishing Group
www.bonnierpublishing.co.uk

To everyone who has suffered from trauma,
to my wife and children, to Nikki, Kelly and my Dad

Sometimes, for real horror to be understood, it needs to be personified.

At first glance, this book contains the tales of 11 broken souls, united by their part in my life.

But these stories are more than that. They are the collective truths of thousands of children whose lives were devastated by the care system. Whose already broken souls were ground down behind the walls of a childrens home.

Some grew up to be damaged adults, starting the cycle all over again.

Others never made it that far.

Everything I have written is based on real-life events both those I witnessed and was a part of and those that I have researched. In places I have merged realities, intertwined stories and added my personal experiences. I have fictionalised names, locations, dates and used artistic licence where appropriate.

This isnt to mislead. Its to protect the identities of vulnerable children and families that are still grieving today. Its to highlight the failings of the care system past and present.

This book is a reflection of true experiences and emotions, the lives of a sad group of broken people connected to each other by their relationship to me. I hope it will speak to your soul in the same way their voices spoke to mine.

Chris Wild x

Dad, Dad, look at that, I said, pointing enthusiastically as we drove past the Furness Drive estate, where the shell of a Volkswagen Golf was engulfed in flames. In the distance sirens wailed and the acrid smell of burning rubber stung my nostrils.

Police cars zipped through the streets, chasing sketchylooking youths on revving motorbikes. Dad gave an irritated sideways glance as I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of the action. Give over, Chris, he snapped.

But I was entranced; it was like a movie scene, the Wild West, just closer to home. Instead of people running round and panicking, they were circling the crackling fireball, throwing bulging bags of rubbish onto it and transforming it into a huge, rapidly expanding bonfire. There was no fear, just defiance. To a nine-year-old kid on his way to Morrisons with his family it was the most exciting interlude to a Saturday ever.

Can we move here, Dad? I whined. Its so boring where we live.

The words had barely escaped my lips when I jolted violently forward, almost head-butting the driver passenger seat in front of me.

Dad had slammed the breaks on hard and was glaring at me through the rear-view mirror.

You wouldnt last two seconds living here, lad, he chastised me. Take a bloody good look around you. Do you think people want to live in this shithole? They have no bloody choice!

Tears pricked my eyes and my bottom lip started to quiver. My dad never swore, especially in front of me and my sister Donna.

What had I said wrong?

Whatever it was, Id really pissed him off. The emotion receptors in my brain went into overdrive, confused by what Id done and scared by my dads reaction. I started to cry. Well, I was just a kid after all.

Too upset to speak, I covered my face with my hands and sobbed as his tirade continued.

Then Mum calmly interjected. Youre scaring him. Dave, leave him alone.

She knew I didnt like being shouted at, as it was usually her doing the shouting. Dad was always Good Cop.

We drove the rest of the way to the supermarket without anyone saying another word. The silence hung awkwardly in the air until we arrived at the car park and climbed out of the car.

Dad pulled me to one side. Im sorry, son, he said, hugging me tightly. I didnt mean to scare you. Its just that place its not a good place.

I frowned. The cogs in my young brain started to turn, piecing together Dads reaction and the scene Id witnessed just a few minutes earlier.

Why were the boys on motorbikes being chased by police? I asked, wondering if that was what he meant.

Ive no idea, he shrugged. Theyre probably from the childrens home.

My ears pricked up. That sounds exciting.

Whats a childrens home? I asked, although my brain was already piecing together an idyllic image: Swallows and Amazons in the heart of Halifax. A home full of children? Where they had motorbikes and got chased by police? What child wouldnt be intrigued? It sounded like the best game of cops and robbers ever.

The floodgates holding back my childish questions were at bursting point when I noticed my dads expression, one Id never seen before. Just for a moment, a veil of sadness seemed to fall over him and dim the light in his eyes.

Its a place youll never, ever experience, he said, then turned away.

End of conversation.

I promised myself that my kids would never know my life.

My dad, Dave Cockcroft, was something of a local legend. Although streetwise, he was also renowned for being fair and selfless a tough man with a kind heart. Walking through the streets of Halifax with him as a kid felt like being escorted around by a celebrity.

Morning, Dave. Hows the family?

I owe you a pint, Dave.

Your lads growing up fast, Dave!

Everyone knew his name and everyone wanted to speak to him. Every conversation was filled with respect and gratitude.

From the moment I was born, his influence and values shaped my life.

But he hadnt been as lucky with his own father, Layton Taffy Thomas, the grandad I never knew.

He had influence on Dads life all right. But his reputation was altogether less savoury.

They called him Taffy cause he was Welsh. He moved up to Halifax as a solider based at the barracks in the town and he had a reputation from the moment he arrived.

An eye for the ladies and a reputation for spreading his oats