Murhainfossa yksityiskohtainen kuvaus James Bulgerin murhasta

Karmeinta mitä olen ikinä lukenut. Englanninkielinen pätkä on siis James Bulgerin isän viime vuonna ilmestyneestä kirjasta My James.

Thompson and Venables slowly ripped my son apart like two wild and savage dogs, then went home for their tea as his little body lay flung across a railway line.

Their torture began when they made him walk several miles from the shopping centre to the place at the side of the railway line where they would eventually kill him. They dropped him on his head, they pelted him with sticks and stones and laughed at him as he cried for his mummy and daddy. They threw blue paint in his face, in his eyes, and forced him to drink the remainder while he was still conscious. I can still hear him crying out and begging them to stop, their eyes filled with hatred as they jeered him. That would have been one of the last images my son saw before he died.

I felt like I was going to explode as the details kept coming at me. My whole body was shaking. I listened in disbelief as I learned how they used iron bars and bricks to smash him apart. They stamped on his face with their boots and when his bloodied skull was smashed apart they exposed parts of his brain. They smashed him with planks of wood with metal bolts screwed through them, found at the side of the railway. As a final degrading act, they removed his lower clothes, ripped his genitals and inserted batteries inside his rectum. With their torture complete, they took his limp body and lay it across the railway track for a train to come and cut him in two. James was thought to have still been alive but unconscious and unresponsive when he was laid on the track, but he died before his body was cut in two, according to the pathologist who examined him.

That is what I face every day from the moment I open my eyes. Tell me what man, what father, can deal with knowing such evil? James was so young and innocent. He couldn't fight back and they knew that. That's why they murdered him - because they could.

The full details of James's torture almost destroyed me. I began to have horrific nightmares about Thompson and Venables standing at James's blood-soaked grave, laughing about what they'd done. I had built up a picture of the boys in my imagination and in my mind their faces were blank, almost like a mask, but their eyes blazed and squinted with hatred and their mouths snarled like wild animals. I would wake up sweating, and picture my son's headstone dripping with blood. The pain was like a raw and gaping wound that refused to heal. I could never shut off the soundtrack of James's dying screams.