Hall I'm Fine

a true story of trust, betrayal and exploitation
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-78563-426-0
Verlag: Eye Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 306 Seiten

In 2024 a gay youth leader was jailed for 22 years. One of his victims tells why it took him two decades to call the police In 1996, at the age of fourteen, Richard Hall met a man who changed his life. Two and half decades later, he called the police. As a result, the man was jailed for twenty-two years. This is the story of what came before the police: how a teenage boy who had been hounded at school because he was gay walked into a world where he thought he would be safe, but which he was too inexperienced to navigate. In his naïvety, he thought what happened next was normal, or somehow his fault. In a vivid, compellingly readable account, Hall recreates with unnerving frankness - and with surprising bursts of humour - the year in his childhood when the attention of older admirers went to his head, with lasting consequences for the rest of his life. I'm Fine is not just the intensely moving story of one mixed-up boy's private hell. It also stands as a powerful warning about predators operating with the impunity conferred on them by 'community' status.

Richard Hall was born in Kent and grew up in Swindon. He now lives in Malaysia with his husband and well-travelled cats. Having trained as a youth worker and participatory artist, he turned his creative attention to writing during a tough period of his life. After contributing to a lengthy investigation and court case relating to the abuse he suffered at a young age, he would now like to find ways to support other survivors.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Hall, Richard

Leseproben

1

My mum told me I was gay just before my tenth birthday. Well, she told me about gay people, when I inadvertently told her I was one. It was during a family holiday to Avignon in the south of France in 1991. The drive there was arduous. My older sister Jenny and I had been strapped into the back of the car all day, making each other squeal by poking and hitting each other, or issuing threats to do so. Each time we squealed, Mum sighed louder, and Dad frequently threatened to turn the car around and go home. Once, he even turned himself round to glare at us, which made Mum shout about watching the road, and Jenny and I screamed because if Mum was panicked, we were clearly all about to die.

I quickly learned that, in France, bread was life, so each day started with a walk to the bakery for baguettes. One particular morning, Mum and I left the house early, before it got too hot. Our house was on the edge of the village, and to nine-year-old me the walk seemed long. Our noses were filled with the scents of wild herbs, lavender and pine sap, which would fade later, as the day grew hotter.

‘Mummy,’ I said during this walk. ‘Why am I different?’

She slowed her pace. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, all my boy friends like girls, and I like girls, but I think I like boys more.’

Mum nodded and started talking about friendships. Saying it was how a particular person made you feel that counted, not if they were a boy or a girl.

‘No, Mummy, I mean, all my boy friends talk about liking girls, but I think I like them the way they like the girls.’

Our walk got slower still. Mum explained that while most boys like girls, sometimes boys like boys or girls like girls. ‘For some people, it’s just for part of their life,’ she said, ‘and for others it’s their whole lives.’

‘But how would two boys love each other?’

Mum came to an abrupt stop. She didn’t answer.

‘Mummy? We did babies at school last year, so how do two men do babies?’

Silence. Her face reddened.

‘Mummy?’

We started to walk again. ‘Did… Er… When they taught you about babies, did they tell you about where they come from?’

‘Of course,’ I said impatiently. ‘Ladies have eggs you can’t cook. And men have tadpoles that when added to the eggs make babies.’

‘Erm, yeah, that’s close. So they explained what sex is?’

‘That’s a bad word isn’t it?’

‘No. Well, it depends how you use it. Between you and me, just this morning, it’s okay.’

We reached the village square where the bakery was, along with stalls selling vegetables and cheese, a butcher’s and a café that seemed to only sell miniature cups of coffee. ‘So they explained about vaginas and penises?’ Mum asked.

‘Vagina is definitely a bad word. Mrs Whitlaw said boys can’t say it because we don’t have one.’

An old woman looked round from a vegetable stall because I’d said ‘vagina’ quite loudly.

‘Good morning. Oh, I mean bonjour,’ Mum said to the old lady, blushing. Then, to me: ‘Let’s get the bread and we can talk more on the way home.’

In the bakery Mum peeled my face away from the patisserie display case. ‘So that’s two baguettes and two – er, deux – petites strawberry tarts, um, fraise, s’il vous plaît.’

I didn’t know what ‘petites’ meant, but it was written in a decorative hand on a label by a tray of desserts small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. ‘Do I get a whole one, or do we only get half each later?’

‘If you keep your face off the glass, we get one each on the way home.’

Outside the bakery Mum passed me one of the tarts on a paper napkin. Underneath the shiny strawberries was the French custard that tasted so much better than its British equivalent.

‘So, sex. They told you how it works?’

‘The man puts himself in the woman when he wants a baby.’

‘Well, sure, though maybe Mrs Whitlaw should do a lesson in equality.’ She took a bite of her tart. ‘But it’s not always about babies. Sometimes, when adults want to, they have sex for fun.’

‘Like playing a game?’

‘Kind of. And when it’s straight people there’s a woman and a man. Gay people, there are two men.’

‘And one of them has a vagina?’

‘Not exactly. Two men, so two penises.’

‘So one puts his penis in the other one’s penis?’

‘No. Just let me tell you and then we can have questions. When two men want to have sex there are no babies.’

‘Because two tadpoles?’

Mum blinked slowly. ‘Well yes, kind of. Some men, if they want to, well,’ – she was as red as the strawberries in the tart – ‘they put their, erm, they put their penis in the other one’s bottom.’

‘With all the poop?’

‘I…erm…I don’t think so. Let’s just say it’s magic, okay?’

‘So I should like bums then?’

‘I said sometimes, and if they want to.’

‘So I should like some bums?’

‘That’s closer.’

‘Should I like my own bum?’

‘It’s not about the bums, okay; it’s about adults being in love.’

‘A LIZARD!’ I ran towards the bright green creature that sat watching us in the middle of the path. But I tripped, and the remains of my tart landed where the lizard had been. I looked up at Mum. ‘I only got to eat half.’

‘Here; have mine. And let’s not mention this conversation to Daddy or Jenny.’

We carried this secret together. I was alone, apart from Mum, and by the time I was fourteen, this was weighing on me.

One morning, at home in Wiltshire, I came downstairs to find Jenny lying on the sofa watching Live & Kicking, and Mum fixing breakfast in the kitchen. She was dressed for work, wearing the grey trousers that made her butt look even bigger, and already had a spot of margarine on her silk blouse. The sound of Dad lumbering around upstairs came through the ceiling as he got ready for work.

Just to be irritating, I took the remote from Jenny and changed channels. Being older, she had a TV in her room. I didn’t, which in my view meant I should get priority for the TV in the sitting room.

‘I was watching that!’ she shouted, jumping up and grabbing at the remote. ‘Change it back now!’

I opened my dressing gown and stuck it down the front of my pants. ‘You do it!’

‘You’re repulsive!’ she bellowed, and stomped out of the room.

As I regally waved her away and dumped myself down on the sofa where the cat was asleep – she now woke and jumped away to safety – Mum appeared in the doorway. I assumed she was about to lecture me to be nicer to Jenny, so I pulled out the remote control and closed my dressing gown. Instead she held up a finger to show I should both wait and be quiet. A moment later the sound of Live & Kicking came from Jen’s bedroom. Mum came and sat by me. She’d been going through the Radio Times, she said, and had seen a new show advertised: Gaytime TV. I said nothing as she explained it was a show for the lesbian and gay community. It had aired late last night and she’d managed to tape it without anyone knowing. She’d already watched it to check it was suitable for me. Did I want to watch it?

Of course I did. For the last five years it’d been just me, Mum and a dream there were more people like me out there. And now, it turned out, there were.

‘You’ll have to wait for the house to be empty.’

I begged, pleaded and promised to turn off the TV if Jenny came out of her room, but Mum wouldn’t budge. ‘I’ll let you have the tape when you can watch on your own.’

Waiting was going to be torture, but Mum was right: I didn’t want Jenny to know about me. If she told one of her friends, it would only be a matter of time before it got back to school. Worse would be her saying something to Dad. I didn’t think he’d be able to support me ‘choosing’ a life that was sinful and might end with me dying young from AIDS. Even if he found a way to accept it, I could imagine the look I’d get every time a male friend came round.

The house was finally empty. Mum produced the VHS cassette. I eagerly pushed it into the VCR, pressed play and sat cross-legged in front of the TV, so close that I could only just see the whole screen.

For the first time in my life I was seeing people like me and listening to them talk about things I was thinking and feeling. A beautiful muscular man and a quick-witted, funny woman presented a current affairs programme. They talked about politics too much, but there they were, right in front of me: gay people being who they were with no apologies, no hiding, no fear. Living their lives the way I yearned to.

For weeks after that, Mum would record the show and watch it through by herself, then I would get to see it, and for that hour I’d lose myself in a world I could see but not touch. It was out there somewhere: a place where I didn’t have to hide; with people who felt like I did. I hadn’t known what I was missing until it was there in front of me.

A week came where there wasn’t a tape for me, and Mum told me I’d have to wait until tomorrow. The next afternoon she stood in front of me with the video cassette in her hand, not offering it to me.

‘There’s about fifteen...