LOSS* LOVE*LIGHT

“Hello, I'm Helen Fairhurst. I've come for the meeting” I said, as brightly as I could. The door opened a bit further and a very thin man in jeans and T shirt stood there. He looked as if he hadn't seen the sun for years; maybe he hadn't. I panicked. Maybe he was just out of jail... Oh God, what was he in for? Am I safe? Where's Fiona? “Yeah, right” he slurred: “Come in... Fona's just dropping the kids off at their nan's. She won't be long.” I stepped gingerly into the hall. As I did, it felt like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. I almost heard the sound of a sarcophagus lid being dragged over the top of me. The air was lifeless; I had to stop myself from clutching my throat and gasping for breath. I knew this was not a physical sensation but a psychic one. I was sensing the energy of the people in the house and shuddered at the thought of children growing up in such a negative atmosphere. I was being warned to be careful and I immediately made my peace with God asking him to protect me and visualising myself in a bubble of pure, sacred, white light. The man shut the door behind me; I felt trapped. I knew without him telling me that we were alone in the house. Dear God, I prayed, keep me safe, while, all the time, smiling brightly. “Would you like to wait in here?” he asked and led me into the front room which was obviously used as a playroom. That made me feel safer, seeing all the toys littered about then I wondered what had happened in this room amongst these symbols of innocence and fun. I urged myself to keep calm. “Would you like a coffee?” he asked politely. “Oh, a cup of tea would be lovely” I said lightly, taking off my coat and hanging it over a child's chair. “Right” he said quietly: “Won't be long; make yourself at home” and he disappeared from the room, closing the door softly. Silence. It was too quiet. Uneasy. It made me shudder. I sat on the edge of a two-seater sofa and looked out of the window. I could see birds hopping about on the fence; I could see clouds and blue sky; I could see yellow daffodils swaying and nodding in the tiny patch of garden but I couldn't feel the bright joyous energies. I felt imprisoned in a dead zone. It was scary. I listened eagerly for the front door, praying for Fiona's return, but it was deathly quiet. I jumped with nerves when the door opened softly again and the young man emerged carrying a mug of tea. “There you are” he half-smiled and set my tea down on a little table: “She won't be long now” and he disappeared again... probably back into his coffin! It was so quiet; what the hell was he doing to make so little sound? Weird, weird, weird. It was ages before I heard the key in the lock and the sound of voices, male and female. The door opened and in breezed a slim, dark haired girl in her mid twenties. She came towards me holding out her hand. “Helen” she said sweetly, a little too sweetly: “You're early. I hope John's been looking after you.” “Yes, yes” I smiled: “He makes a good cuppa.” She took off her coat as another lady walked in. She was plump, blonde and in her fifties. I recognised her from the TV as the Founder and Chairman of Aftermath. She eyed me suspiciously. I sensed friction between the two women and for some reason I was caught in the middle. “I'm Fiona” said the dark-haired lady: “This is Yvonne.” Looks were exchanged between them and I felt like there was some point-scoring going on. “This is Helen Fairhurst of MAMAA” said Fiona smugly. Yvonne bristled, pretending to be pleased to see me. “Nice to meet you” she said a little too loudly and shook me by the hand. What the hell was going on? I really didn't need all this garbage. I groaned inwardly. About six people came in carrying plates covered with foil. “Where's the food going?” one lady asked. “Oh right” responded Fiona quickly: “I'll show you.” I held up my chocolate cake and garlic bread lamely. Fiona smiled: “The dining room's through here everyone” and she led us all through the dim passageway into another dark room. The table was laid out with plates, cutlery and glasses. There were sandwiches, sausage rolls, vol-au-vents crisps and nuts covered with cling film. Everyone placed down their offerings and Fiona busied herself putting dishes in to the microwave to heat up. John poured people fruit juice or mineral water. It was difficult to make conversation with people when you weren't allowed to ask what they did for a living or why they were there. I was tense and inhibited as I stood woodenly with a plate of food in one hand and orange juice in the other. “Hello” whispered a man in his thirties as he sidled up to me. The energy around him made me nauseous and I stepped back. He moved forward, invading my personal space. I knew instinctively he had been involved in some sort of sexual crime. His face had that same grey, pasty pallor and there was a smell of rotting around him. I didn't know if it was a physical or psychic sensation. His eyes were dead and lifeless and they slid up and down my body undressing me. ‘Oh dear God I'm going to be sick!’ I took a swig of fruit juice. The tartness cut through the nausea and I was able to make brief small talk with him. “Helen? What a lovely name” he smiled: “What's an attractive woman like you doing in a place like this?” I had to ask myself the same question. I had reached my limit; I felt contaminated like I was sitting in the middle of a garbage heap. There was a limit to what I would do for MAMAA and this was it! I was going home! I put my plate and glass down firmly. “Helen” called Fiona. She grabbed my shoulder: “There's someone here to see you.” I looked confused; she smiled sweetly again and led me back in to the playroom. There was no-one there. What the hell was going on? I was getting really pissed off now. I could see Yvonne hovering in the doorway. A big, middle-aged woman with short, dark hair walked in followed by a very thin man with a red, worn, wrinkled face, oily black hair and carrying a half bottle of scotch. He looked smashed. “This is Helen of MAMAA!” pronounced Fiona triumphantly. For a few seconds, I was utterly bewildered then it struck me like a thunderbolt. I didn't even hear Fiona telling me who this couple was because I was in shock. Standing before me were the parents of one of the boys who had tortured and murdered little James Bulger.