THE BAD MAN
I was twelve years old and in love with Clare Watson.
As often as I could, I would walk the four mile round trip to her house on Church Road to ask if she wanted to come out to play.
On all the occasions I rung, never once did she say yes (except that time Michael Le'Febour was with me).
On this particular day, walking back, after being rejected once again, a man approached me and asked if I wanted to earn some money.
‘How much?’ I asked.
‘About £12.’
Just enough to buy myself that chemistry set I had my eye on.
‘Post some letters for me,’ he said with a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders, as if it was an everyday request one would make of a young boy walking along the street.
I considered this, though it seemed a bit peculiar. But £12 is £12. The price of one chemistry set.
‘Yeah OK, sure, I'll post your letters for you,’ I said.
So off I went, following this guy, early 20s, brutish looking, a bit like a rugby player.
We walked up the road and stopped outside the St Leonard’s C of E church; he said we needed to go behind it.
So we walked around the back where it was nice and quiet, a place where we wouldn't be disturbed.
He sat down on a step, in front of a gate that led to a secret garden.
I stood about two metres away, a little wary.
‘So where do you want me to post the letters?’ I asked
‘Yeah sure kid, but before that why don't you go through this gate and wait for me,’ he said.
I was puzzled by his request and asked him why.
‘I just want to play with myself OK.’
But I still didn’t get it.
I didn't know what this guy was on about, and it didn't feel right, it felt really wrong.
‘Just play with myself, you understand don't you kid?’
He then did something that sent a shiver down my spine.
With his hand, he did a jerk-off motion, over his groin.
It was then I got it.
And the moment I did, I span around and ran.
I ran for my life and didn’t look back.
I ran straight to the nearest phone box, dialled 999 and told the operator what happened.
The operator told me to wait for the police but after ten minutes I got too scared and ran home.
When I got there the police were waiting for me.
Mum was horrified, angry and on the warpath.
She was screaming at the police to do something about it, but they said they couldn't arrest him because he never actually touched me.
I went for a drive with them, showed them where it all happened.
They knew the guy; they pointed out where he lived.
It was the house over the road from where I made the phone call.
He sat waiting for lone boys to walk by before pouncing.
My mum wrote to Margaret Thatcher and the Queen, demanding action. The police eventually put her mind to rest, by telling her that ‘The Bad Man’ wouldn't be walking anywhere for the next couple of months. Instant justice they called it.
I suffered nightmares, horrible nightmares for years, about being abducted by rugby players.
When I recounted this story to friends, I told them ‘The Bad Man’ came to grab me, but I punched him square in the stomach, brought him to his knees, then I ran away.
I told that version of events for years, until now.
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