: Richard Hall
: I'm Fine a true story of trust, betrayal and exploitation
: Eye Press
: 9781785634260
: 1
: CHF 10.80
:
: Biographien, Autobiographien
: English
: 306
: Wasserzeichen
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
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.

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 aboutliking girls, but I think I likethem the waythey 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 becaus