CHAPTER 44
I watched Kaz’s face go through a series of twitches, and I could almost track them, from ‘I’m too young’, to ‘How?’, then ‘Who?’, and finally ‘Ah!’

My goddess was never, ever stupid. “He really does love you, doesn’t he?”

With one question, I knew not only that Iain truly loved me, but that Karen did. She stepped forward to take me in her arms, still taller than me even without the heels she lived in, and talked my fears away.

“I would have doubts about most people, Steve, that they would want the kid for themselves, but for once, just once, I think….Em, pet, you really want this, don’t you?”

Emily just nodded, and I could see the little flicker on Karen’s face. She was like me; never could she be a natural parent, and in a parallel to my earlier thought I realised how much I actually loved her. This was the woman who had delivered a stepson, but could never deliver one of her own. I realised, as well, that Em had written so much of her life’s possibilities off because of her own love for me.

What a shitty world.

Finally, Kaz pulled back. “Oddly….I know a bloody good gynaecologist. Shall we get some decent lowdown on this?”

We had a lot to sort out, of course. Not least the legality of the donation, and the law regarding maintenance and responsibility for any child. Before that, there was one person who needed to be given, at the very least, her chance to approve. Iain was still embarrassed about his offer, and I wondered how much agonising my big, strong brother had done over the idea. It was certainly a bolt from the blue, but Emily’s reaction was all I needed to make my own decision.

The book was going to be out, though, before anything was done. And we definitely needed to get our feet under the staffroom table before planning any long, parental break. That was simple common sense. Once we had our life in some sort of rhythm, we could consider breaking step for a while.

Work did indeed impose a rhythm to everything, much more so than college had done. After the first few days, Em’s style had changed to the more comfortable end of her wardrobe, and the scuttlebutt was that a large number of hormonal boys was rather disappointed. That kept me smiling up until the day the book came out and Tom, as a precaution, took over the spare bedroom, with Sally, of course.

Book releases are reported in various ways depending on the newspaper in question. The Guardian and Times had a condensed summary in their book review sections, the NotW did a series of lurid extracts with ‘artist’s impressions’, and the Sun did the same with photos posed by models, rather giving the impression that I looked like a beauty queen and spent all day wearing nothing but a minimal set of bra and knickers. Its coverage consisted largely of “Grunt! Man! With tits!”, which was to be expected. Tom pointed out the old, old adage of no publicity and bad publicity, and I managed to let it slide. The editorials, though, were irritating. While the Guardian did its usual job of pointing out the need for better systems of inspection, and an expansion in the child protection system, the Mail bleated on about how everything could be solved by privatising the whole system and letting ‘the market’ decide, as clearly the council had failed in its duty, etc, etc.

I wrote to them and pointed out that Castle Keep had, to all intents and purposes, been a private establishment, but for some reason they ignored my letter.

It was the bottom feeders, though, who were unfortunately closest to the truth. The Sun and Mirror did ‘how many more?’ features, echoed in a slightly more literate way by the Express, and over the years I was shaken to see that my little piece of Hell had counterparts all over the United Kingdom, never mind Europe. I was also following the steadily unravelling of a group called PIE, the Paedophile Information Exchange, which at one point had even been consulted by governments for things such as the age of consent. Their survey of members, I found out, showed that they were most attracted to girls between the ages of 9 and 11, and boys from 11 to 15, and couldn’t see any problems as long as the child ‘consented’

Their trials kept hitting my attention for decades, and I had double vision each time. One more predator down, one more set of nightmares for a week.

The interesting part, though, was becoming a television celebrity, at least for a week. That involved not just ‘Look North’ from Newcastle, where I had a surprisingly sensitive interview by Mike Neville, but also a rather more serious visit to the studios of ‘World in Action’, where I was one of the talking heads they used on a very disturbing shock piece on paedophile networks.

That was, oddly, an excellent weekend, because we ended up staying with the boys and meeting Tessa’s new boyfriend Wyn.

She had finally, it seemed, moved on from trying to wear out her new equipment, as well as toning down the pelmet and heels look she had sported for years. I could sympathise, and empathise to an extent. All her life she had been locked up and once set free she had tried to see and experience the world in a day. Now, however, it looked as if she was finding her own corner of it. Wyn was a sizeable chap, a rugby player of some kind, and the raw edges of Tessa’s former life blurred against his bulk. Whenever we sat in the lounge, she was perched on his lap, and there looked to be a genuine affection in the way he absent-mindedly played with her hair or touched her arm. Life was moving on, and now she was swimming with it instead of drowning.

We did the bits for ‘World n Action’ in a remarkably quick time, which gave Emily and Tessa time to do girly shopping together while I did a signing at Foyles. What do you say to somebody who tells you that they ‘enjoyed’ such a book? That was only one of the comments I got, some of which profoundly disturbed me.

“I couldn’t put it down”---fine.

“I cried all the way through”---thank you, sincerely.

“I am not in favour of hanging, but….”---oh, trust me, I know that one.

“Where did you get the idea from?”---fuck off.

“Was it an exciting time (and many similar questions)?”---fuck off and die painfully.

In the main, though, my ‘fans’ (not fen) were subdued, nervous, as if talking to me might break me. I had made sure that there were plenty of posters showing the proportion of royalties I was donating to Barnardo’s and the NSPCC, so the questions about cashing in were stifled at birth.

It still hurt, though. Yes, in a way I was cashing in, but the drip-drip of people who saw it all as a fiction cut me. That ended almost completely once the WiA piece came out, and we had Kincora, and Bryn Estyn, and so many other horrors, and bit by bit PIE was disassembled.

I can’t really remember the day to day of my life back then, as it disappears into a fuzzy blur around bright snapshots. The money, in the words of the old song, did indeed roll in, and I was busier than ever. Harry had leant on me big style, and I was now involved in after-school athletics coaching, which gave me excuses to lead school trips. Oh, what a sadist I was! Rather than taking groups of teenagers on a wander round some castle or other, we went to Boot, where my prospective track stars were introduced to a little old lady who would take them for a jog around a few local sights.

Two boys, and a girl, that came out of that game ended up in the Olympic squad for 1988. Not bad going, Nana.

And Iain. With the help of Karen’s doctor, he did…things, and things were done, and, after a while of trying in which my wife and brother never gave up, in August 1985…

In August 1985, at 3am on the fifth, as I held her hand and she panted and moaned, and Iain and Nana waited with Karen and Brian outside, Steven Iain Brian Jones and his slightly younger sister Karen Elizabeth Barbara joined our family. Em was sweaty, and stank, and there was the mixed smell of blood and disinfectant that I remembered all too well, but there were two mewling little bundles trying to work out where all the bright light had come from and all of us, every one, had moved on a stage in lives we might never have had.