Bernard OMahoney - Trouble in Mind: An Autobiography

About the Author

Bernard OMahoney is the bestselling author of Essex Boys , Essex Boys: The New Generation , Bonded by Blood , Fog on the Tyne and numerous other acclaimed true-crime titles.

TROUBLE IN MIND

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Bernard OMahoney

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Epub ISBN: 9781780571409

Version 1.0

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Copyright Bernard OMahoney, 2011

All rights reserved

The moral right of the author has been asserted

First published in Great Britain in 2011 by

MAINSTREAM PUBLISHING COMPANY

(EDINBURGH) LTD

7 Albany Street

Edinburgh EH1 3UG

ISBN 9781845967789

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any other means without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to dedicate this book to my mother, who died in my arms on 20 January 2010. I love you, Mum. Until we meet again, may you rest in peace.

I would also like to remember my brother-in-law Elric Tierney, who died suddenly on 16 July 2010, aged 33. A life spent in the fast lane better to burn out than to rust.

Those who have passed leave us all legacies from which I hope my children Adrian, Vinney, Karis, Paddy, Daine, Lydia and others will learn.

Thank you to my brothers, Jerry and Michael.

Last, but by no means least, I would like to thank my wife, Roshea, for the strength she has shown throughout the many difficult challenges that life has presented us with.

May your God, whatever, whoever he, she or it may be, be good to you.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

FOR what you are about to read may the Lord make me truly thankful. I say that because, looking back on my life to date, I have to concede that I am fortunate to still be amongst the living. War on the streets of Ulster, civil war on the streets of South Africa and gang wars on the streets of Essex: you name it and excluding Morris dancing Ive probably experienced it. My beautiful late mother is the person I have to thank for helping me survive the madness in which I have found myself immersed. Not only did she give me the gift of life, she taught me by example how to overcome any hardship, to survive brutality and, more importantly, to get back on my feet after being knocked down.

Extreme violence has been a prominent feature of my existence ever since my birth. My fathers psychotic abuse physically hardened me, but it left me with a seething hatred for those who tried to control me. Physical ability combined with mental instability is a dangerous mix.

I careered through my formative years venting my inner anger on all that I encountered. This brought me to the attention of the police and, henceforth, my future appeared to be mapped out. When my tyrannical father eventually left home, I followed suit. I believed I was giving my mother the peace and quiet she deserved: a new start, a new beginning. I knew that it was what we both needed.

But its fair to say my new start failed miserably. However, I followed my mothers example and never gave up trying to better myself and my situation. I joined the army; I started a new life in London, following a prison sentence; I attempted another new start in South Africa, and another re-birth followed in Essex. It, too, failed when three friends were murdered. My umpteenth attempt at finding tranquillity ended when my 26-year-old wife died suddenly after just 19 weeks of marriage.

Thirty-five years after walking out of my mothers front door, I am embarking upon yet another new life. I have re-married and have once more walked away from all the elements that I have blamed for previous failures. I sincerely hope that this time I will succeed despite my failures, I have never doubted that one day I will eventually achieve my goal.

A positive attitude to overcoming the hurdles that we all face in life is one that my mother instilled in me by example and one that has helped me to survive the numerous extraordinary events detailed in this book.

Sitting comfortably? You wont be for long.

BEWARE THE IDES OF MARCH

BEWARE the Ides of March, they say; only bad things happen on that day. My mother didnt know 15 March had ancient links with impending danger, although she did know something was up when I started kicking my way out of her womb as she did her shopping. The year was 1960 and the place was Dunstable in Bedfordshire. My mother collapsed in the street with the first contractions, then picked herself up and staggered home to our council maisonette. She sent my four-year-old brother out to summon help, but he went to play in the garden instead. So, as always, she just got on with it. Apparently its not one of my memories I made my way out easy enough and emerged onto the front-room floor. My mother broke the umbilical cord with her hands and I started screaming. Perhaps I knew what was coming; perhaps I had picked up in the womb that I was about to move into the domestic equivalent of what the army call a hostile environment.

My mother came from Sligo town in Ireland, one of thirteen children raised in a four-bedroom council house. I was her third child; there were two boys before me, Jerry and Paul. I was christened Patrick Bernard, taking the first name from my father and the second from my uncle. As soon as I could exercise a choice in the matter, I stopped using my fathers name. He came from Dungarvan in County Waterford but never told me anything about his background; in fact, he never told me anything about anything, there was no such thing as a normal conversation in our home. Over the years, I have pieced together fragments of his story and, although Ill never forgive the bastard, I have come to understand why he became such a bitter and twisted individual.

Things started going wrong for him at birth. He was born illegitimate at a time when and in a place where illegitimacy stamped you with the mark of the beast. Hate the sin but love the sinner, Christians sometimes say, but at that time in Catholic Ireland I think they must have hated the sinner and the product of the sin. His childhood experiences killed any decency within him and convinced him that only by suppressing any normal human emotion could he hope to survive. That was what life had taught him and it was the only lesson he wanted to pass on to his children. He hated to see us showing emotion. Even as infants he expected us to behave like grown men or rather like the man he had grown into: cold, hard and ruthless. But still those first few years in Dunstable were relatively happy, at least compared to what came later. My mother had quite fond memories of those times: going for walks on the downs, visiting nearby Whipsnade Zoo and getting money regularly from my father, who worked on the production line at the nearby Vauxhall car factory. However, for reasons known only to my father, when I was four, he decided he wanted to move to Bilbrook, near Wolverhampton. Almost as soon as we arrived things changed for the worse. My father, who always drank, began to drink to excess. He also became extremely violent towards all of us, my mother especially. He would come home barely able to stand, spitting obscenities at my mother before beating her senseless and slouching off to bed. Memories of my mother screaming as she was beaten still haunt me. She would be screaming for him to stop and we children would be screaming with fear. Other nights, even without much drink taken, he would turn off the television and sit there slandering her family, humiliating her, degrading her, even questioning the point of her existence. His most decent act would be to send us to bed. I would lie awake in the darkness, listening to her sobbing downstairs, pleading with him to stop. As I got older, I would sometimes overcome my fear and shout out, Leave her alone, you bastard. Then he would come running up the stairs to beat me with whichever weapon he had picked up en route.