Stories

Stories >> Stories home >> A cuddle from his killer

A cuddle from his killer

Karl just wanted to make Dad proud


Published by: Ash Anand & Jai Breitnaur
Published on: 1st November 2010

None of us could contain our excitement any longer. As the front door clicked shut, we ran into the hallway, clutching our glasses of fizzy wine and
party poppers.
‘Congratulations!’ we cheered.
It’d been a hard slog, but my brother Karl, 16, had passed his army training with flying colours.
‘I’m so proud,’ beamed Mum. She’d arranged this party for him, inviting me and my sisters Laura, 25, and Rachel, 14.
She’d even asked Dad.
Looking over at him sat in the corner, I expected him to crack a smile at least. He was ex-army, after all. Shouldn’t he be pleased his only son was following in his footsteps? But there he sat, picking at his fingernails, face like a bulldog that’s swallowed a wasp.
Karl spotted him all alone, and trotted over with a glass of bubbly.
‘Here you go, Dad,’ he beamed.
‘You think you’re a soldier?’ he snarled. ‘I could tell you stories.’
Poor Karl’s face fell but, truth be told, I hadn’t expected any less from our dad Paul Melling, 52.
Instead of dishing out affection to us kids as we’d grown up, he’d dished out rules. He’d controlled every aspect of our lives, from what mates we had to what we watched on TV.
I’d never been allowed pizza or fish fingers for dinner, not even on my birthday. And if we caused a fuss about anything, he’d take it out on our mum Lorraine.
I knew Karl hated it, too, but what I couldn’t understand was why he’d always been so keen to please Dad.
While me and my sisters had let our father run the home with military precision, he’d scampered around him like a lost puppy.
Yet this was the man who hadn’t even let him listen to his favourite Michael Jackson song Man in
the Mirror.
Eventually, Dad and Mum had split up, but the moody devil still lived on the same street as her. He liked nothing better than glowering at us.
I didn’t resent Karl for trying to get on Dad’s good side, though. Far from it. Because, as well as standing up for Dad, he’d stood up for the rest of us, too. When Dad had lashed out at me or Mum, Karl had been there to pull him off and take us somewhere safe.
But it wasn’t just Dad’s punches that hurt, his words packed a wallop, too. Like now – Dad’s jibe about Karl not being a real soldier had hurt my big brother so much.
‘Ignore him,’ I whispered to Karl.
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he smiled, clinking glasses with me. His brown eyes looked sad, though.
As the years passed, Karl carried on offering that olive branch to Dad. Not me though, I’d had enough of his grumpy ways.
Even having my own kids Callum, now five, and Leyland, two, I avoided contact with him as much as possible. I wasn’t taking any tips from him. I had my boyfriend Anthony to help me bring my boys up properly.
It seemed Laura had similar feelings. When she announced she was getting married, Karl was the first to ask the question on our minds. ‘Will Dad be giving you away?’ he said.
The room went quiet. Laura looked at the floor. ‘No,’ she whispered. Karl sighed.
‘I suppose I’ll tell him,’ he shrugged. ‘He’ll be really upset.’
‘I know,’ she smiled. ‘But I’m not going to ask Dad, because I’d rather be given away by you.’
Karl’s face was a picture!
‘Really? Why?’ he gasped.
‘You were always there for us, Karl,’ she beamed. ‘You were the one who looked after Natalie and Rachel when I moved out. You’re the head of this family really.’
With tears in his eyes, he gave Laura a huge hug.
‘It’d be an honour,’ he sniffed.
Karl was right about one thing, though – Dad didn’t take it well.
At first, he didn’t want anything to do with the wedding but, over time, he softened and agreed to come along.
A few days before the wedding, Laura was running around like a mad thing, trying to find someone to look after her son, Owen, three, the following day.
With Mum and Karl at work, and Rachel at school, Laura was stuck for who to ask, so I offered to take him out for the day with Callum and Leyland.
‘But I can’t get there until late morning,’ I sighed.
‘What about asking Dad?’
Karl suggested.
Well, desperate times called for desperate measures. So we asked – and he agreed!
But the next morning, as I tried to get the boys ready, all I got were texts from Dad demanding to know where I was and why I hadn’t turned up yet. He’d only had Owen for a couple of hours!
Then he called… ‘Get round here you stupid slag, I’ve got things to do!’ he snapped.
Charming! In a huff, I stormed off to his place with Callum in my arms. Dad answered the door – and took a swipe at me.
‘Stop!’ I cried, turning quickly to protect my toddler.
‘I’ve got things to do,’ he boomed.
Who the hell did he think he was?
He could’ve hit my child – and no one, but no one, was going to get away with that. I wasn’t a little girl he could intimidate, I was going to fight back!
Grabbing the kids, I went straight home and called the police.
Still upset, though, I called the one person I knew could calm me down, the one person who always had, and always would be there
for me. Karl.
‘No one tries to hit me while I’m hugging my son,’ I cried down the phone.
‘Things are just tense with the wedding,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you should’ve called the
police into this.’
‘Then who should I have called?’ I sniffed.
‘Me,’ he said, sadly. ‘I could have smoothed things out. Dad listens to me. Tell you what, I’ll go over there now.’
‘No, don’t,’ I begged. ‘I don’t know what he might do.’
‘I can hold my own against him,’ he sighed. ‘I’ll call you later.’
Worried sick, I called Mum. ‘I’ll go straight home, see if I can stop Karl,’ she promised.
Hours dragged by, and I didn’t hear from anyone. Neither were answering their phones.
‘Karl probably took your dad down the pub for a beer,’ Anthony smiled. Maybe… but something didn’t feel right.
Suddenly, someone pounded on the front door.
‘I bet that’s Dad,’ I whispered to Anthony. ‘He’s had a row with Karl, and blames me, I know it.’
‘I’ll go and…’ he said, but I stopped him.
‘You stay with the kids, I’ll get this sorted.’
All set for a fight, I flung open the door. But it wasn’t Dad, it was my neighbour, who was as white as a sheet.
‘It’s your brother,’ she whispered. ‘He’s been in a fight.’
I legged it down two streets to where my mum lived. At the end of the road, outside Dad’s place, were flashing blue lights, people shouting and running around.
Had this got something to do with Dad, too?
‘Mum!’ I cried, seeing her familiar figure. ‘Rachel!
What’s happening?’
‘It’s your dad,’ Mum sobbed. ‘He… When I got home, Karl was there. I told him not to go, but your dad phoned my mobile. Karl heard him shouting about you, calling me a slut…’
Mum could barely speak through her tears, so Rachel picked up the story. ‘He said he was going to go round there, finally have it out with Dad,’ she croaked. ‘But he didn’t even get the chance to open his mouth. Dad was waiting with a knife, he came out and stabbed him.’
It felt like all the blood in my body had drained away.
‘Dad stabbed Karl?’ I gasped. ‘Where is he? Is he okay?’
Just then, a paramedic came running over.
‘Karl’s stable, we’re taking him to hospital,’ he said. We quickly bundled into Mum’s car.
As we drove away I saw Dad, hands cuffed behind his back, talking to the police. Bile rose in my throat – was he… smiling?!
At the Royal Hospital, Liverpool, we waited anxiously for news. After about an hour, the consultant came out.
‘How’s Karl, can we see him?’ I asked, desperate to tell my brother how much I loved him, how brave he was…
‘I’m sorry,’ the consultant said. ‘Karl was stabbed eight times. He lost a lot of blood and went into shock… He didn’t make it.’
I stood staring at the doctor, confused. ‘No, you’re wrong,’ I insisted. ‘He’s a fighter. Try again… try again!’
Suddenly, I felt Rachel grab my arm. Mum had collapsed on the floor. ‘My son,’ she sobbed, rocking gently.
Dropping to my knees, I put my arms around her. ‘He’s not dead,’ she wailed, again and again while I held her. That’s how I felt, too. I couldn’t believe this was real, and I wouldn’t until I’d seen him.
I stood up. ‘I want to see him,’ I said, pushing past the consultant and storming into the cubicle on the A&E ward.
It was the most horrific sight I’ve ever seen – blood everywhere as doctors had fought to save Karl’s life. And his face, pale and staring, still holding a shocked expression.
Behind me, I heard a little gasp.
Laura, her hand clutching her mouth, whispered: ‘They said he’d been rushed to hospital… but h-he’s got his wedding suit fitting tomorrow.’
Suddenly, the wedding didn’t seem very important at all any more.
‘I’m sorry Laura,’ I wept. ‘Karl won’t be giving you away now.’
She began to sob silently, shaking her head. ‘I’ll cancel, I’ll have to cancel,’ she whispered.
Turning to look at Karl, then back to Laura, anger burned inside me. Dad had always been jealous. He’d always wanted to be the centre of attention. Well, I wasn’t going to let him ruin Laura’s big day completely.
‘Karl wouldn’t have wanted that,’ I told her. ‘He’d have wanted you to carry on.’
Four days later, with Karl laying cold in the morgue, and Dad in a prison cell, Laura walked down the aisle. Her son Owen walked next to her looking dapper in his tiny suit – giving his mum away in his uncle’s absence. Poor little mite.
Later, at the reception, Laura stood up. ‘I’m not going to make a speech,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘I’m just going to ask you to raise your glasses and drink to Karl.’
As his favourite song Man in the Mirror by Michael Jackson, wafted out of the speaker, not one person had a dry eye.
‘Dad would never let him listen to this,’ I whispered to Rachel.
Memories of all those years of cruelty and control burst out then, and I couldn’t stop crying.
Karl had been my best friend – how could I go on without him?
When the trial started in November, I was there at Liverpool Crown Court every day.
Dad didn’t show an ounce of remorse, but stood proudly in the box – he even pleaded not guilty to murder.
We heard that after attacking Karl, he’d
calmly walked back into his house, cleaned the kitchen knife and washed his clothes in the washing machine, as if he could wash his guilt away.
But there were witnesses – Mum had seen the final stab as she ran up the road to try to drag Karl away.
On November 16, 2006, after changing his plea to guilty, Dad was sentenced to life for murder, and ordered to serve at least 12 years before he can apply for parole.
I knew our family could never go back to normal, but at least we could begin rebuilding our lives.
Then, two years ago, a letter arrived on my doorstep.
‘It-it’s from Dad,’ I gulped, showing Anthony.
‘He’s written to you from prison?’ he frowned, turning the envelope over in his hand.
‘I suppose I’d better see what it says,’ I gulped, tearing it open. ‘Maybe he’s saying sorry.’
Something made him come to mine… I read. I hope who it was manages to live with themselves for what they have done… it was not all my fault…
I could barely take the words in, I was so angry.
‘Is he trying to blame us for what happened?!’ I spat. ‘Even after killing his own son, Dad can’t take responsibility for his actions.’
All Karl ever wanted was for Dad to be proud of him but, instead, he let him down in the most hideous way possible. He took away his life.
• For more information, visit www.familiesfightingforjustice.com
Natalie Melling, 22, Toxteth, Liverpool