I Just Wanted to Be Loved: A boy eager to please. The man who destroyed his childhood. The love that overcame it.. Stuart Howarth
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– but I just couldn't do it. We drove back to the pub and I went upstairs and sat on the edge of my old bed feeling numb. Mum wanted to crack open the champagne and celebrate but I stayed in my room, unable to deal with talking to anyone. Every noise from downstairs made me nervous that someone was coming to attack me; you always had to watch your back in prison and I was still there in my head. They call this ‘wing trauma’ and it takes a few months to dissipate.
In my experience, there were five different types in prison: the ones who took drugs, the ones who drank hooch (a home-made brew made from fruit, sugar and brown bread), the bullies, the ones who got bullied and the ones who fought back – and I was definitely one of the fighters. I was determined not to let anyone put one over on me. I felt as though my back was in a corner and I had to keep lashing out to survive. After spending my entire childhood being abused, I believed I had nothing left to lose any more. But being a fighter in jail means you have to be constantly alert to danger and that's something you can't switch off at the snap of your fingers.
It was disorientating coming out to echoing freedom from a place where every hour of the day was mapped out for you and other people decided what you were going to be doing. I was aware that I was disappointing Tracey – not that she said anything, but she must have been expecting a loving reunion that day, just as I had.
That afternoon, a journalist and photographer from the Oldham Chronicle came to interview me and take my picture. I think they were expecting us to be in the midst of a lively celebration but I told them that there was nothing to celebrate. A man's life had been lost and I will always regret that. I don't remember much else. I think I must have been very taciturn and unsmiling because they left as soon as they could to go and file their story.
Tracey and I had a quiet dinner and went to bed early. I could tell she was worried about me but I couldn't find the words to describe what I was feeling. I didn't know whether I was coming or going. At least it was good to lie quietly in the dark with her arms around me.
The following day, I came downstairs to find Mum decorating the pub with ‘Welcome home!’ banners.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I asked.
‘We're having a party,’ she said, and my heart sank into my boots. ‘It's all arranged, all your mates are coming. You'll have a great time!’
I'd rather have had my fingernails pulled out with pliers, but what could I do?
About a hundred people came to the party that evening and I hated every minute of it. I had no idea what to expect or how people would treat me. Some seemed nervous of me, unable to meet my eye when they were talking to me. A couple of so-called ‘hard men’ of the neighbourhood suggested we meet up the following week because they had a ‘job’ I might be interested in. I could imagine the kind of thing they had in mind. When you are known to have killed someone, certain people find you intimidating so you can be useful as a debt collector, or providing personal security to gangsters, or driving a car for them. Whatever it was, I wasn't remotely interested in getting involved with the Manchester criminal fraternity and was upset at the suggestion. Was this how I was going to be seen from now on?
Even worse, one local hard man kept pressing me: ‘What's it like to kill someone? What does it actually feel like?’ There was a gleam in his eye that suggested he was interested in finding out for himself.
‘Behave yourself, you muppet!’ I said, and moved away to talk to someone else, upset by his attitude.
I kept downing pint after pint of lager – something I've always done to give me social confidence, but that night I was doing it to black out the world as well.
I made a speech thanking everyone for standing by me while I was inside. ‘I wouldn't be here today without you all,’ I said. ‘And I especially want to thank Tracey and tell her that I love her to bits and hope that she'll agree to marry me. The sheer fact that she stood by me is extraordinary.’
Everyone cheered the roof off at that and Tracey was grinning from ear to ear. It wasn't a surprise to her – we'd discussed marriage before and we both knew we would do it one day when the dust had settled, but I wanted to announce it to the world that night and wear my heart on my sleeve.
I wished I hadn't, though, when Mum cornered me later. ‘You don't have to marry Tracey just because she stood by you,’ she said. ‘You have to be sure she's the right girl for you.’
I was annoyed but didn't want to cause a fuss so I just said, ‘I am sure, Mum,’ and walked away.
When it all got too much for me at the party, I said to Tracey, ‘Let's get out of here. Let's go to Smokie's for a bit.’
It was strange being back in my old haunt, the club where Tracey and I first got talking. I was drunk and in a highly emotional state and really I should just have gone straight to my bed, but that wasn't possible because the party was still in full flow back at Mum's. I went to buy some cigarettes but the machine was broken so I asked a lad who was sitting nearby smoking.
‘Have you a spare fag, mate?'
‘I ain't fuckin' giving you a fag,’ he snarled.
‘Look, I'm just out of prison and I want a fag but the machine's broken. Will you give me a fag, please? I'll buy it from you.’
‘No, fuck off!’ he said, and I saw red. I grabbed him by the throat and laid him flat along the seat then I took the lit fag from his mouth and held it just above his eyeball, shouting abuse at him.
Fortunately the doormen saw what was happening and came rushing over or I don't know what I would have done.
‘Easy, Stuart, calm down,’ they said, pulling me off.
‘All I wanted was a fag and this asshole wouldn't give me one,’ I explained.
‘Right you – out!’ they said to the lad, and despite his protests they threw him and his mates out of the club. It's useful having friends in the right places sometimes.
In my drunken state, I then decided to go to the garage next door to buy some cigarettes.
‘You'd better not, Stuart,’ one of the door lads said. ‘Those boys are still hanging around out there and they might all go for you.’
‘Fuck that. I'm not scared of them,’ I said, and marched straight out across the car park. Sure enough, the lads were standing there, one of them brandishing a golf club. ‘Go on then, bring it on if you're going to,’ I yelled. At that moment I'd have fought the whole lot of them. My prison mentality was still at the forefront. Show any sign of weakness on the inside and you're in big trouble.
The doormen stood between me and the lads and I got my cigarettes and went back into the club to find Tracey, but not before I shouted, ‘Fancy a game of golf, do you?’ to the crowd of lads.
‘I wondered where you were,’ she said, oblivious to the drama. ‘Were you just catching up with your mates?’
‘Something like that,’ I said.
I was burning up with rage that night. Maybe it was partly alcohol-induced but I felt furious with the world for everything I'd been through. If I'd made a list of people I was angry with it would have stretched the length of the nightclub and out into the car park outside: the prison guards, some of the arsehole inmates I'd had to put up with, some of the people at the party earlier, my Mum, my stepdad, the guy who wouldn't give me a fag. I was like a powder keg just waiting for the fuse to be lit, or a hand grenade with the pin half out. I honestly thought I was going mad.
When you're released from prison, there's virtually no support network waiting for you. I was a big guy – six foot three, weighing twenty-one