The Seventh Victim

Part I

1996

Chapter One

Wednesday, 7 February 1996 – 3:30pm

The school bell hadn’t finished ringing before the doors were thrown open and a crowd of excitable children fled the building. The parents who had been patiently waiting, chatting among themselves in hushed tones, were suddenly assailed by a barrage of noise as the youngsters saw them and charged.

‘Mum, Mr Price wants to see you first thing tomorrow morning. Sally Peterson said I hit her at lunchtime but I didn’t.’

‘Mum, I didn’t eat all my sandwiches because Dad put beetroot on them. He knows I hate beetroot.’

‘Mum, can I go around to Martin’s for tea?’

Standing in the doorway of the 1950s redbrick building, Sam Blackstock waited silently, looking for his mother. He stood on tiptoes, looking over the heads of the other children. She usually waited by the gate but, today, she wasn’t there. He scanned around – maybe she was talking to another of the mothers – but he couldn’t see her anywhere.

‘Mr Appleby, I can’t find my mum,’ Sam said to his teacher.

‘Don’t worry, it’s only just turned half past. She’ll be here soon.’

‘Mr Appleby,’ a call came from behind him. ‘Ruby’s had an accident again. She won’t come out of the toilets.’

He almost swore but managed to bite his tongue. ‘Shouldn’t Mrs Pratt see to her? I can hardly go into the Girls’ toilets.’

There was a ripple of childish laughter from dawdling children.

‘Mrs Pratt went home at lunchtime with her trouble again.’

‘Right,’ he said, blowing out his cheeks. ‘Sam, if your mum doesn’t turn up soon, go and wait in the office for her.’ A flustered Mr Appleby made his way back into the school, leaving Sam on the steps, alone, looking hopelessly for his mother.

3:35pm

Teresa Blackstock looked at her watch. She was late. She was very late. She always made sure she was at the school gates no later than 3:25. When the appointment came through for the job interview, she knew it would be close getting to the school on time to collect her seven-year-old son, but she was convinced she would make it. She should have arranged for someone to pick him up, just in case. Alice would have taken him back to hers. She only lived around the corner. Why hadn’t she asked Alice?

Sitting on the bus, stuck in traffic, drumming her fingers hard on her bag, chewing the inside of her mouth in frustration, she silently begged and pleaded to any god who would listen to make the traffic move quicker. She kept looking at the time on her watch. Surely, that wasn’t another minute gone by already.

Sam was a sensitive boy. He had withdrawn into himself since his dad died. He clung to Teresa, rarely going out to play with his friends in case he came home to find her gone, or worse. She had promised him that she would always be there for him; he had nothing to worry about. Now, the thought of her special little man standing alone in a rapidly emptying school playground filled her with horror. She could picture his pale face, eyes wide and wet with tears as he realised he had lost another parent.

3:37pm

It didn’t take long for the schoolyard to empty. Once the children had filled their parents in on the kind of day they’d had, they were led away. The school day was over with. It was time to go home.

The silence returned.

A bitter wind came in from the coast and Sam shivered as he stood alone in the middle of the yard. He should go back into the school, and into the office to wait for his mum, but he didn’t want her to turn up and not see him there. He looked around. There was nobody about.

Sam, seven years old, three feet tall, blond hair, blue eyes, scuffed shoes, fading black trousers, bitty navy-blue sweater, and in need of a haircut, stood perfectly still and waited. And waited.

A fine rain started to fall. He zipped his jacket up and headed over to the bike sheds for shelter. He stood in the corner and kept peering out so his mother would see him when she came through the gates; if she came through the gates.

A minute went by. Then another. He looked to the car park and saw teachers leaving for the day. Mrs Malinowski headed for her Punto with a plastic box filled with books to mark. Mr Spencer limped to his Land Rover. Sam didn’t like Mr Spencer ever since he gave him one hundred lines for pushing Sophie Bishop. Then, Mr Appleby left. He almost called out to him, but Mr Appleby ran to his car as he wasn’t wearing a coat and the wind and the rain were getting heavier. By the time Sam had opened his mouth, Mr Appleby had started the engine and was reversing out of his parking space.

Then, while continuing to wait under the shelter of the bike sheds, Sam saw an old football someone had left. Despite the rain, he went over to it and started dribbling with it, anything to keep warm. He flicked it up, tried to head it, but it went wide. The minutes ticked by as he practised his skills. There was still no sign of his mother.

‘Sam?’

He stopped at the sound of his name being called. He looked over to the gate, but there was nobody there.

‘Sam. Over here.’

Sam turned in the opposite direction and saw a man standing by the rear entrance nobody used except during fire drills. Sam kicked the ball back to the bike sheds and ran over to the man.

‘Hello, Sam. Sorry I’m late. Your mum called me from a phone box. She said she’s going to be a bit late and you’re to come and join Wesley and me at Burger King and she’ll meet us there.’

Sam looked up at the tall, thin man. He had dark-brown floppy hair and kept flicking his head whenever it flopped in front of his eyes. Sam frowned. ‘It’s me, Jonathan. I’m Wesley’s older brother. Remember the Nativity play last year? I was the one filming.’

The penny dropped and Sam smiled as he recognised him.

‘Mum said I shouldn’t go off with strangers.’

‘It’s lucky I’m not a stranger, then.’ Jonathan laughed. ‘Come on, it’s freezing. I’ll buy you a nice big burger to warm you up.’

3:40pm

The doors of the bus opened and Teresa jumped off and burst into a run. Her bag kept falling off her shoulder, and she was wearing the wrong shoes for running in but she didn’t care. She charged along the uneven pavement, the cold air biting at her face, stinging her eyes, making a mess of the hair she had spent an hour styling to make a good impression at the job interview.

She turned the corner and saw the school up ahead. Already the yard was empty and the car park only had two cars in it. She pushed the iron gate open and stopped, looking around for her son. He wasn’t there. There was nobody there. She looked at her watch.

‘Sam!’ she called out. Her voice echoed back to her. ‘Sam!’ She shouted louder.

Walking further into the schoolyard, her eyes wide and darting in every direction, she was looking for his dark jacket.

She passed the bike sheds and went around the side of the school and there he was, by the back gate.

‘Sam!’ she called out once more.

Sam turned to look at his mother and stepped towards her, but the man he was with made a grab for him. Sam screamed at the shock and tried to wriggle free but he was no match for the six-foot-tall man looming over him.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ Teresa called out as she ran towards them. ‘That’s my son. Let him go, now!’

By now, the man had Sam under his arm and was turning to leave the schoolyard. Teresa, almost upon them, grabbed her bag and threw it. It hit the man in the head and, briefly, he lost his balance, dropping the boy, who turned and headed in the direction of his mother.

Teresa grabbed the man by his coat and pulled him back into the schoolyard. Then, kicking the back of his knees, he fell to the ground; at which point, she leapt on him and sat on his back, making sure he was unable to move.

‘Sam, run into the school and get one of the teachers. Tell them to call the police. Now!’

Sam turned and ran as fast as his little legs could carry him.

‘You have chosen the wrong kid to mess with this time, you pervert,’ Teresa spat into the man’s ear. She had no idea she was sitting on one of the most prolific serial killers England had ever known.

Chapter Two

‘I should have dropped him. As soon as I heard his mother shout his name, I should have dropped him and run. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Did you see him? All that soft blond hair, those blue eyes. He was so sweet, so beautiful. I wanted him. I had to have him.’

Jonathan Egan-Walsh sat in Interview Room 3 at Skegness Police Station. He saw no point in denying what he had been caught red-handed doing.

Sam’s mother had sat on him as two teachers ran out of the school to see what was going on. They called the police and he waited on the concrete – Teresa on top of him – for almost twenty minutes, until the police arrived. He kept looking up at the seven-year-old, and dreaming, wishing, hoping he had that little boy in the back of his van.

‘He stood out from all the others, you see. You should have seen him at lunchtime. All the other kids were running around playing, laughing, but he was always on the sidelines. He looked so incredibly sad. Children shouldn’t be sad. They need looking after. They need someone to show them love and happiness.’

Across the table sat Detective Sergeant Alan Weeks and Detective Constable Sarah Daley. They tried not to look disgusted as the twenty-eight-year-old opposite delighted in telling his story. Alan had children of a similar age to his would-be victim. It was painful to listen to his confession.

Ten miles away, on the outskirts of Skegness, surrounded by terraced houses with no front gardens, boarded-up shops and abandoned cars, a tired-looking block of flats stood tall. The once-white façade had long since faded, cladding crumbling, window frames grimy, graffiti etched into the smoke-damaged fire door.

Two police vans pulled up outside the main entrance and out poured the uniformed officers.

The door to the foyer was unlocked and they made their way up to the top floor. A key taken from Jonathan Egan-Walsh was used to unlock his front door and a team of crime-scene officers dressed in white over their suits entered the flat.

Detective Inspector Caroline Turner struggled to get into the suit, before looking into the flat from the hallway. In the corner was a neat pile of newspapers so high they looked ready to topple over. She swallowed hard against the smell of strong cleaning fluid: bleach, disinfectant and cheap furniture polish. Whatever was found in this flat was not going to be good. The first newspaper she picked up was an edition of the local, the Skegness Standard. It was three weeks old. There was also a copy of the Evening Chronicle from Newcastle, The Scarborough News, the North Norfolk News, all of which were several weeks and months old, and local newspapers spanning the country among the other piles.

The hallway was carpeted in a cheap grey cord, the outline of the floorboards underneath showing through. On the walls either side were pictures of bleak landscapes and coastlines. One of them depicted a cottage in the middle of nowhere with an angry sky looming down upon it, the famous clock tower on the Skegness seafront drawn in pencil. The artist obviously had talent, but there was something sad and dark about them. Trying to work it out, Caroline suddenly realised what it was: there were no people in any of these scenes. In reality, there always seemed to be people on the pier, walking by the clock tower, and on the beach, even in the depths of a harsh winter. But in these pictures, Skegness, a thriving seaside town, was made to look abandoned, forgotten, lost in time. Caroline shivered. The artwork displayed in people’s homes reflected their personality. Turner worried what the rest of the flat would reveal about Jonathan Egan-Walsh’s state of mind.

Slowly, she made her way into the living room, where the main hive of activity was taking place. The room wasn’t large. The oversized window on the far wall should have acted to bring the outside in and open the space up, but the amount of furniture, the grime on the windows, the half-closed Venetian blinds made the room smaller, claustrophobic. It was a depressing room. There was no happiness here.

A large veneer wall unit was cluttered with cheap ornaments and framed photographs; more bleak landscapes. Caroline headed straight for it and studied the faded pictures.

‘Ma’am.’ She turned and saw a white-suited DC standing in the doorway of a bedroom. ‘You’re going to want to see this. There’re clothes in the bedroom.’

‘There usually are,’ she replied.

Caroline headed into the bedroom and looked at the worried faces of two officers standing in front of an open cupboard. She turned to see what they were looking at and felt her heart sink.

The fitted cupboard had floor-to-ceiling shelves, eight of them in total, all full of items of clothing: baseball caps, T-shirts, polo shirts, trainers, sweaters, bags, socks, pants, shorts, coats. They were all carefully placed where Jonathan could stand and admire them at any time he wished. The clothes were all far too small to belong to the man they had in custody. These belonged to children. These were trophies.

She took in the array of bright colours and, with glove-covered hands, reached out and picked an item at random and unfolded it. A blue sweatshirt with a picture of Spider-Man on the front. Something countless young boys had in their wardrobes. Her throat tightened.

‘Ma’am, I recognise this,’ said PC Lacey, stepping forward, holding a blue knitted sweater in her shaking hands. ‘Do you remember Stuart Phillips? Disappeared in March a couple of years back. He was wearing something just like this on the day he went missing.’

‘I’m guessing there was more than one made,’ Caroline said with a raised eyebrow.

‘No. This was handmade by Stuart’s grandmother. His mother was in pieces when she described what he was wearing. It was the last thing her mother made before she died: a blue sweater with a white trim on the collar. It’s this one. I know it is,’ she said with determination, gripping the sweater tight in her gloved hands.

‘OK …’ Caroline swallowed hard and looked back at the cupboard. ‘Was Stuart found?’

‘Yes, ma’am. He was found in a shallow grave seven months later.’

‘Wrapped in a white sheet?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Shit,’ Caroline said under her breath. Once again, she looked back at the cupboard. Why did Jonathan have a sweater belonging to a dead child in his bedroom? How many of these items also belonged to dead children?

‘Bag everything up.’ She looked down and noticed she was still holding the Spider-Man sweatshirt in her hands. She folded it neatly and placed it gently on the bed. ‘Everything will need to be tested. I want this entire flat combed. Lacey, go back to the station and get me the files on every missing child and unsolved murder of a child we’ve got on our patch.’ With that, Caroline quickly left the room. She needed some fresh air. She needed to go home and hold her seven-year-old son.

Back at the station, Jonathan’s 1990 white Ford Transit had already been impounded. The bodywork was in poor condition, the cab a mess of food crumbs and empty packets, the back empty apart from a few blankets thrown inside. Setting to work discovering what, or who, had been inside this van, Forensics had a long night ahead of them taking it apart.

Weeks and Daley took a break from interviewing Jonathan once Caroline had the files of six young boys from their area in her hands. Five had been found murdered in the past five years, one was still missing.

Caroline briefed her officers and retreated to the viewing room, her heart beginning to thud in her chest. She looked through the glass at the young man sitting alone. He was playing with his fingers, his eyes travelling around the room. Was it possible she had a killer of six young boys in her station?

The door opened, and Weeks and Daley returned to the interview.

‘Jonathan, before we continue, are you sure you don’t want a solicitor present?’ Daley asked.

‘I’m sure,’ he said, shrugging.

‘Jonathan,’ DS Weeks began, clearing his throat, ‘do you know who Finlay Maynard is?’

Jonathan, stick-thin, prominent cheekbones, beady eyes and thick wet lips, looked up to the ceiling. ‘Sandy hair. Blue eyes. Freckles. His two front teeth just starting to grow back. He had a scar on his left knee from when he fell onto glass,’ he said wistfully.

Weeks and Daley exchanged glances.

‘Do you know what happened to him?’

‘I know what the newspapers say happened to him,’ he replied, a smile spreading across his lips.

Caroline shook her head in disgust. He was enjoying this.

‘Go on,’ Weeks prompted.

‘He was playing on the beach near Skegness Pier with a friend and the friend’s family. He became separated from the party and was never seen again. He was found about three months later in woodland just off Greenfield Lane in Aby.’

‘How do you know so much about him?’ Daley asked.

‘It was in the papers. I’m interested in local events.’

‘What about Tobias Carver?’ DS Weeks asked.

‘Tobias Carver,’ Jonathan mused. He repeated the name several times, rolling his tongue around the words as if he was savouring a fine wine. ‘Nine years old, I believe. He disappeared on 18 September 1993 and was found 14 April 1994. I’m very good with numbers and dates,’ he added, leaning forward.

‘Did you know Tobias Carver?’

‘There was a lot about him in the newspapers, local and national. His parents even appeared on the television. I would think the whole country feels like they knew him. He had a twin sister, enjoyed football, didn’t like maths, and had a lisp. Am I correct?’ he asked with a wide grin revealing his stained, crooked teeth.

DC Daley recoiled in her seat. The walls of the interview room were closing in, her flesh crawled. ‘Why do you remember so much about him?’ she asked.

‘Like I said, I’m interested in local events. As we all should, detective.’

‘Do you know where he went missing from?’

‘Yes, I do.’ He fell silent, sat back and folded his arms.

‘Would you like to tell us?’ Weeks prompted.

‘He was playing with friends in a park. They were playing football. When he’d had enough, the game broke up – it was his ball, and he went home.’

‘He never made it home.’

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘Do you know what happened to him?’

‘Yes.’

Weeks and Daley looked at each other.

‘Go on …’

‘He was found buried in a shallow grave in woodland, wrapped in a white sheet. He was naked. There were signs of sexual intercourse and strangulation.’

‘How do you know all that?’ Weeks asked, leaning across the table.

Jonathan copied his stance. Quietly, he said, ‘Detective, everything I’m telling you is in the public domain. It was in all the newspapers and on the TV news. There is absolutely nothing I’m saying that anyone else in the country couldn’t say if they took a close interest in what was going on around them. You have nothing on me.’ His voice was calm, almost soothing. He was enjoying himself.

Standing in the viewing room with her arms folded, DI Caroline Turner’s blood ran cold as she listened to Jonathan calmly recite what had happened to all of the missing and the dead.

‘Peter Wright went missing on Saturday, 16 May 1992,’ Jonathan said, sitting back in his seat again. ‘His mother was so distraught at the police press conference that the detective spoke for her. Peter had breathing problems and often had to use an inhaler, but he hadn’t taken it with him on the day he went missing …’

‘You’re laughing at us,’ Caroline said to herself.

‘He was found the day before Christmas Eve 1992. It was a Wednesday.’

Caroline had seen the worst people had done to each other many times in her career, but never once had she met someone as warped as Jonathan Egan-Walsh. He was revelling in his telling, yet knew the police couldn’t do anything, as he was correct: everything he was saying was in the public domain. To a court, he would seem bizarre for having such a keen eye for detail, but it wasn’t enough for a conviction.

She couldn’t listen to it any more. She stormed out of the viewing room, threw open the door to the interview room and slammed it behind her.

Jonathan looked up at her and froze.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Caroline Turner,’ she began. Weeks stood up from his seat and allowed his boss to sit down. ‘I’ve been to your flat, Jonathan. I’ve been in your bedroom. I’ve seen your … collection, shall we call it.’

Jonathan sat wide-eyed, his gaze fixed firmly on Caroline, but didn’t say anything.

‘We will be testing each and every item found,’ she. ‘We will be asking the parents of the boys we have as Missing Persons or who have been found dead to identify them; and, if they do, I’ll be charging you with their deaths … with their murders. We’ve already impounded your van and judging by the state of it, I’m guessing that will tell us a great deal about the people you’ve come into contact with. Do you have anything to say?’

Jonathan’s bottom lip began to wobble as his gaze burned into Caroline. Feeling uncomfortable, she turned to look at Daley, who frowned. Before Caroline had entered the room, Jonathan had impressed them with his knowledge. He’d sat straight and tall. Now, though, he was shrunk in his seat, looking afraid.

‘Jonathan, are you hearing what I’m saying?’ Caroline asked.

A tear fell from his eye, slowly slipped down his face and landed on the table. The room was so silent that the quiet plop of the tear was picked up by the recording equipment.

‘Jonathan?’

He closed his eyes tight and rocked back and forth in his seat. ‘You’re not real,’ he said quietly.

Chapter Three

The Collector jailed for life

Serial killer, Jonathan Egan-Walsh, dubbed The Collector, was jailed for life yesterday at Leicester Crown Court.

Egan-Walsh, 28, was found guilty last month of murdering thirteen young boys between the ages of six and nine. All but one of his victims – Zachery Marshall – has been found.

Sentencing him to serve a minimum of twenty-five years, Mr Justice Brownlee delivered a long and scathing attack on the child killer.

‘Throughout your four-week trial, you have sat, unresponsive in the dock, as evidence of your crimes has been revealed in terrifying Technicolor. You have put the grieving families of your victims through torment and reduced a jury to tears so you could revel in your despicable crimes.

‘The fact you haven’t revealed the whereabouts of one of your victims shows the contempt you have shown for the loving family you so mercilessly destroyed. It is because of this that I shall be recommending to the Home Secretary that you die in prison.’ Egan-Walsh, dressed in a pale-grey suit, stood with his hands behind his back as he listened, impassive, to the Judge’s remarks.

Throughout the 26-day trial, Egan-Walsh remained blank-faced and, on occasions, aloof, as he gazed around Courtroom 3, taking in his surroundings. When shouts and jeers came from the public gallery, Egan-Walsh’s expression was unchanged. As he was taken down, he glanced up at the public gallery and nodded at the crying relatives. He descended the steps to an angry tirade from the crowd, which had to be brought to order by the Judge.

Outside court, Detective Inspector Caroline Turner of Lincolnshire Police gave a short statement to the waiting press, flanked by tearful parents. She said, ‘The trial may be over, the families may have received the sentence they wanted, but the agony continues. Nothing will bring back their sons, and they will live with the knowledge of what Jonathan Egan-Walsh did for the rest of their lives. However, they can heal without fear as justice has been served today.’

In a separate interview, DI Turner said, ‘Even though Jonathan Egan-Walsh has been sentenced, this is far from over. His disturbing collection contained hundreds of items and there are missing children all over the country. There are a number of police forces wanting to speak to him. And I shall continue to interview him until he reveals the whereabouts of Zachery Marshall. There is no doubt in my mind, Egan-Walsh is responsible for more deaths, and I am making it my duty to uncover the true number of his deplorable crimes.’

Egan-Walsh now heads to Wakefield Prison, where he begins his life sentence. One of Britain’s most prolific serial killers is behind bars. The exact number of his victims may, sadly, never be known.

The Collector’s Victims, Pages 6 & 7.

Daily Mail, Wednesday, 2 October1996

Whole life tariff for The Collector

Jonathan Egan-Walsh will never be released from prison, the Home Secretary said yesterday.

After reviewing his sentence, Jack Straw said, ‘Jonathan Egan-Walsh is one of this country’s most heinous murderers. He’s up there with Myra Hindley and Ian Brady. He was convicted of killing thirteen boys, but who knows how many more he killed. He should die in prison.’

Last week, Egan-Walsh, 29, launched his second appeal after the first one was turned down by the Court of Appeal.

Upon hearing the news of his whole-life tariff, Martha Wright, mother of seven-year-old Peter who was killed in 1992, said, ‘This is the icing on the cake. When he was sentenced to life, I always knew there would be a time when he was released. I’m pleased the Home Secretary has seen fit to make sure he rots in prison for the rest of his life.’

Sun, Monday, 18 August 1997

Where are our sons?

A letter to serial killer Jonathan Egan-Walsh, signed by 18 parents of missing boys, was sent to his solicitor yesterday in the hope of finding out what happened to their sons.

Egan-Walsh, 31, was sentenced to life in 1996 for the murder of thirteen boys. He has never revealed the whereabouts of one of those victims, Zachery Marshall, and it is believed he may have killed many more.

Late last year, it was revealed that some parents with missing boys around the country have identified clothing in Egan-Walsh’s collection as belonging to their children. Now, anxious parents are petitioning the killer, and his solicitor, to reveal the whereabouts of their sons.

Diane Marshall, son of Zachery, who disappeared from Skegness aged seven in January 1993 said, ‘We don’t care about another trial. We know what he has done and we all just want our sons back so we can bury them and mourn. If he thinks we’re just going to go away, he can think again. I will not rest until I find out what he did with my Zachery.’

Mr Egan-Walsh’s solicitor, Henry Fitzroy, declined to comment.

Independent, Friday, 12 November 1999

Chapter Four

The following are extracts from The Collector by Alex Frost.

Violent Beginnings

Life did not begin well for Jonathan Egan-Walsh. On the second anniversary of his parents’ marriage, 4 August 1967, his mother, Gillian Egan, had expected to be treated to a night out. She waited for her husband to return home from work to their two-up two-down mid-terraced house in Walker Street, Skegness. But by ten o’clock that evening, sat on the floral, second-hand sofa in her best frock, Gillian resigned herself to the notion her marriage was not to be celebrated that year.

When John did eventually arrive home, he was drunk – Friday was payday; John had a pocketful of pound notes; and, as soon as the hooter sounded in the leather factory, he and his colleagues had headed straight to the Golden Eagle across the road. As usual, John had been the last to leave, and had only left then because his money had run out.

Gillian was still waiting for him in the living room. She heard the crash of dustbins, the swearing as he failed to find his key and the hammering of his fists on the door to be let in. She was tempted to leave him outside to sleep on the doorstep, but his knocking grew louder. Next door, had three-month-old twins, and on the other side was an elderly couple. She didn’t want to upset them, so opened the door to find John leaning against the wall.

Statements from both sets of neighbours filled in the gaps as to what happened on that night. Gillian’s voice was heard first: an explosion of frustration as she lambasted her husband for forgetting their anniversary.

John’s reply was muffled. The argument continued. Furniture was broken. It was a little after midnight when silence fell.

Gillian later told her mother that she had gone to bed, leaving her husband to sleep on the sofa. She was woken by a sweaty palm clamped over her mouth, her husband looming over her, saying, ‘You wanted to celebrate, and this is what couples do on their anniversary. Satisfied now?’

It was only when Gillian described to her mother what had happened that she realised she’d been raped. She had tried to push John off her, squirmed as he tore her nightie, prised her legs apart and forced himself inside her. She had tried to scream but his hand remained over her mouth. She couldn’t move. John, seven inches taller and four stone heavier, was too powerful for her. All she could do was lie there with her eyes tightly closed and pray it would be over soon.

She said the attack didn’t take long. As soon as he was finished, he rolled off her and was snoring within minutes. For Gillian, the suffering was just beginning. She was sore and in great pain for weeks.

John was sheepish the following morning and that night returned from the football early with a bunch of flowers and a cheap bottle of wine. From Gillian’s point of view, the marriage was over. She couldn’t stay married to a selfish drunkard rapist. She wanted a loving, respectful husband, a man she could have children with. John definitely was not father material. Gillian needed to find the strength to break away and that wouldn’t come while she was recovering. She endured her husband’s half-hearted apologies, having him lie next to her in their second-hand bed, share meals, and trips to the pub together, until, five weeks after the assault, she discovered she was pregnant.

Gillian had always wanted to be a mother, and now she would be – however distant from her dream the reality was.

When Gillian told John, he ordered her to get rid of it immediately. He felt great shame and remorse at what he had done. Gillian’s mother recalled how John had spent days pleading his case. He did not want to look at his child and see his one night of madness reflected in its eyes. But Gillian was adamant. She was having this baby and he would have to live with his guilt. That night, John left with a few meagre belongings in a plastic carrier bag. It was the last Gillian Egan ever saw of him.

Gillian went into labour a month early on the top deck of