Sean Bryant

Height: 1.78m
Weight: 84kg

After sixth form I went onto Nottingham Trent University to study journalism. When I graduated with a 2.1, I returned to Herefordshire and worked for a provincial rag. People thought me out of my mind at the time as I had been offered a position with a national. My mother, at the time, was struggling, as she had lost my father and brother in pretty quick succession, so I felt it a duty to return home. It wasn’t long before we started to clash. After three years of freedom I found it difficult to readjust to the strict rules of my childhood home. As a parent I now realise that these rules were nowhere near as strict as I had thought. All my Mum was trying to do was maintain standards. Our two daughters seem to live in a permanent state of disarray. Amelia takes the view that she will never interfere as long as they always keep their doors shut if we have guests. If either of us get the vacuum out you would think we have committed the biggest crime since the Yorkshire Ripper as the protests nearly drown out the sound of the hoover. Yet they play their sounds nothing like music at top volume. One rule for the parents and one for the children.

Despite falling out with Mum I could not just walk away and abandon her. She was grieving Dad and Joe, my brother. I moved into a flat in Ledbury and would drop in to see her from time-to-time. We got on much better and to this day she still makes the best Sunday roast, a title she shares with Amelia. Diplomatic, hey? I don’t expect either of them will read this.

I played Sunday league football for my local pub. I must admit, we were not that good and, as I look back now, I am struggling to remember a single win. Surely, that can’t be the case. I would like to think I was one of the better players, but I was nowhere near as good as a policeman who for reasons best known to himself, played for us as well. He always said that winning wasn’t everything, but enjoyment was. I am not sure how being thrashed every week could be construed as enjoyable. Eventually, he plucked up the courage to ask the daughter of the pub’s owner out on a date. Her name was Tanya and would very soon become Mrs Cobbold. By the way, the policeman’s name was, well still is, Duncan Cobbold. So, football was not what kept him at the club! For some reason he and I hit it off and we became good friends. That friendship remains to this day.

One day, can’t remember the exact date, I was due to meet him for a beer in a town centre boozer in Ledbury. When I arrived at the pub he wasn’t there. I ordered a pint, probably a lager and lime in those days, sat on a barstool and watched as a young lanky black kid was throwing darts at a board. I could see he seemed a little angry at times as the darts almost went right through the board. The pub phone rang, and it was for me. Duncan couldn’t make it.

I asked the lad playing darts if I could join him. He looked at me in such a way that I didn’t need any words to accompany the stare, it was most definitely a negative. I think he said something like why did I want to play with a no hope black kid. I think I replied with something like I had a beer to finish and might as well do something as I had been stood up. Anyway, we started to talk, and even met up for darts and beer a few more times. He never trusted me enough to let me have any home details. When we talked about what he did for a living he was even more guarded. One day he was a trainee mechanic, another a trainee bricklayer and another a building site labourer. I didn’t believe him as his hands were as soft as a baby’s bottom. I never questioned him though.

One evening I was in the pub talking to the barman, who I think was the landlord, when Dwight came in. That was his name, Dwight Carter, although I was never sure whether he had given me his real name or not. He seemed in a bit of a state. He stunk of sweat so, just maybe, he was a labourer after all. I got him a beer and we sat down at the bar.

There was a small portable TV behind the bar, very different from the giant screens that adorn every pub wall in the land these days, and I could sense Dwight taking a keen interest in a story that came on. I asked if the sound could be turned up and watched in disbelief as a tear ran down my new mate’s cheek. It was followed by another and another. The story was about a raid on a rural post office. He was clearly affected so I suggested we go outside and get him some air. He confessed all. He had got in with the wrong sorts when he was at school and wanted out. He was terrified of the gang-leader with, as it turned out, just cause. I suggested I introduce him to a policeman friend of mine. He was reticent at first but after sitting on my sofa for a couple of hours he agreed.

Duncan managed to get him a deal of sorts although nothing could be guaranteed. After a trial that lasted three days I made my way into the public gallery for sentencing. Dwight, most definitely his real name, stood with his co-criminals, they had all been guilty as charged, to hear their fate from the judge. I could not believe my ears when he was given five years inside. I looked across to him and his face was shrouded in absolute shock. I looked across at Duncan who was looking down at the floor shaking his head. I was shaking with fury at this betrayal of a good kid. How on earth can we ever get people like Dwight to trust the system when this sort of thing goes on. He deserved another chance. I was furious.

As the three were escorted from the dock the ringleader, a particularly nasty individual named Soames shouted threats against me, Duncan and Dwight. I was quite frightened to be honest. After a day or so I heard that Dwight had been killed in prison. I was devastated. It didn’t stop me writing about it, though. The piece was not really written that constructively, it was from the heart, and it attacked the justice system in this country. It caught the attention of the editor at the London Echo and Post who called me at home one evening and asked me down for a chat. He ad been impressed by my piece and said that this was just the type of fearless journalism he wanted to promote at his newspaper.

I moved down to London. Once I was settled in Duncan Cobbold came to see me. I had not actually seen him since that day in court. He tried to justify what had happened, Carter was, after all a convicted criminal and got his just desserts. We begged to differ. Anyway, somehow, we had a good time and before long Duncan had been accepted into the Metropolitan Police, so he moved down to the capital with Tanya. He soon rose up through the ranks before he was summoned to a meeting with the Home Secretary. A specialist agency was being mooted and Duncan had been recommended to head it up. Honour indeed. I got on with my career at the Post where I became an investigative journalist. I came face-to-face with some dangerous individuals but there was not a single day went past without me thinking of Dwight Carter and those blood curdling threats from his killer. I always felt I had let him down; I should have done more.

After I had been with the Post for about eight weeks one of my fellow journos invited me to join him for a trip up to Aldeburgh in Suffolk for a sailing weekend. I wasn’t sure but said yes. On the morning we were meant to go I called him to say I wouldn’t be able to make it. Moments later he was knocking on my door refusing to take no for an answer. He assured me it would be more drinking than sailing. I threw some clothes in a bag and we were on our way. It was a Friday and we weren’t meant to board the yacht until the Saturday morning. We had far too much to drink at the yacht club which gave me a mild hangover the morning after.

When I awoke on Saturday morning, I had a hazy recollection of talking to a stuck up sort of a girl on the outdoor terrace. My mate told me that she had the hots for me as we made our way back to the bed and breakfast. I had assured him that there was no way I was interested as she was a stuck-up sort of a bitch. Her father was some leading light in East Anglian business. Her background could not have been further away from mine. She was, most definitely, in my mind anyway, a typical Tory prude. My socialist values would never match her requirements of a bloke.

As I said, I had thrown things in a bag. I hadn’t bothered with a razor and my clothes were in a rather creased and crumpled state. To cap it all I didn’t even have a comb. And, you know what. I didn’t give a monkey’s.

We had hardly set sail when I could feel a queasiness coming over me. After a few minutes I was leaning over the side casting my breakfast to the fish. I heard a female voice ask if I was alright? I turned to look at this person who was clearly mocking me. It was the same stuck-up Tory from the night before. Her eyes betrayed an amusement but she was trying to stop herself from laughing. It wasn’t long before she criticised my appearance. She told me that, in no uncertain terms, I needed to sort myself out for the evening dinner. When we docked, or whatever you call it, she grabbed hold of me and almost dragged me to her car. She had an apartment in the town, it was, in fact, her mother’s and father’s. She made me undress, except for my boxers, which I steadfastly retained for decency, before throwing everything in the washing machine. From there it was into the drier before she ironed everything. Before starting the washing cycle she found a razor, fixed a new blade and showed me to the bathroom. At this point she whipped off my boxers and disappeared off to the laundry. Ablutions complete, I wrapped a towel around my middle before returning to the lounge. She was standing in the bay window looking out to see. Silhouetted against the bright light of the outdoors I suddenly felt a sensation I had never known before. The evening was great.

We put our differences behind us and started to see one another. Even her parents made me feel most welcome. They might have been Tories but they most certainly were not the monsters my Mum had made them out to be. In fact, when we announced our engagement it was she who said I was marrying the wrong sort. I do love my Mum but sometimes she opens her mouth without engaging her brain.

We got married on 2nd July 2003. Amelia was already pregnant with Poppy but, fortunately for our parents’ dignity, she was not showing. Poppy was born on 3rd February the following year. Daisy came along on 29th March the year after that. Life could not have been better. We reluctantly accepted a wedding gift from her parents so that we could purchase a house in the beautiful Suffolk village of Oakshott. Few couples, back in the day, were lucky enough to have a four-bedroomed house as a starter home.

Life continued to be good until the summer of 2011. Things went seriously downhill that year. I remember we were just coming up to our eighth wedding anniversary when our world was turned upside down. Fortunately, the downturn only lasted a few weeks but, at the time it felt like a lifetime.

I was kidnapped from outside the offices of the Post by a security company making out they were acting for one of their clients. This was the start of the most terrifying experience of my life. I had been in sticky situations before, and have been since, but never has it involved my family. Although it wasn’t known to me at the time, the ringleader of the armed gang who robbed the post offices had been released from prison, which added another dimension to my predicament. Amelia had been in contact with Duncan Cobbold but my editor had already informed him so the motions had been put in place to seek my release. At first it was assumed that Randolph Soames was behind my abduction. On studying the evidence this was quickly dismissed as the method had been far beyond the capabilities of the small-time self-styled gangster from Birmingham. I was glad they took it seriously because Soames had already ordered the execution of Dwight. I could never understand why he wasn’t arrested, charged and convicted of the murder. All Duncan would ever say was that there was not enough evidence.

I found myself being held at a facility on the Suffolk Norfolk border. Initially, it was rather pleasant, so much so that if I hadn’t been worried about my family, I might have relished the opportunity of the apparent tranquil break. One day I was relaxing at a picnic table in the shade of a tree when a woman came over and introduced herself to me. It turned out that she had been an employee of the Civil Protection Group, of whom I was a guest, before she had allegedly passed sensitive information to a journalist, me, about one of their clients. I had never ever met this woman before. The only reason her circumstances had changed was that her and I lived in the same village. I can say right now there was no way anyone could have forgotten her as she had the most captivating, almost scary when she scowled, electric blue eyes I had ever seen. They were so blue you would not have thought them possible without some sort of enhancement. Eventually we escaped before we were to be executed. She knew of this through her former boyfriend, now deceased, and he helped us abscond from the hell we had found ourselves in. Her name was Sue-Beth Walters. Her son, Toby, now goes out with our daughter, Poppy, and he is a good lad.

I made my way home. When I got there the door was opened by two total strangers. I didn’t know it until later but they had squirrelled Amelia and the children away to safety and were waiting the arrival of Soames and his cronies. These two blokes were bristling with muscle and weapons. If they hadn’t been on my side they would have been frightening. One was a giant black man and the other a nearly as big white man. They had both been sent by Duncan to protect my wife and children and I had stumbled into their trap. I had wondered for a few moments how they had known exactly who I was. Must have studied pictures of me.

After the arrest of Soames and the arrival of Duncan on the scene they were introduced. It turned out that Dwight Carter had not been killed in prison after all, no wonder charges were never brought, but he had been given a new identity and a fresh start. He was now called Curtly Richardson and he was grinning from ear to ear at my shock and surprise. Our friendship was rekindled and to this day he, along with Sue-Beth Walters, has remained one of my, no our, closest friends.

He now lives in our old house with Sue-Beth and what remains of her family. The goings on at Plantagenet House, the name of the complex where I was held, were soon resolved and it transpired that the leader of the group who had ordered my arrest was Sue-Beth’s father-in-law. He committed suicide before he faced justice. His wife, Lady Isobel Walters, was so ashamed of what her husband had done decided to sell her house along with other assets and pay the proceeds into a fund to benefit victims of her husband’s atrocities. She would most definitely have fitted my parents’ impression of a typical Tory, but the stereotypical view was being diluted by the actions of the now many I have met. I might not always agree with their politics but I have enormous respect for people like Lady Isobel, Sue-Beth and my parents-in-law. Of course, I daresay and as my mother keeps reminding me, not all of them are like this.

Whilst I am immensely proud of our two children I save a special word for Daisy. It wasn’t known to me, Amelia, and even Sue-Beth, said the signs were there but I am not tuned into that sort of thing, but she had been wrestling with her sexuality through high school. She gathered us in the lounge, a room my wife insists on calling a drawing room, old habits, to come out to us. It was an emotional afternoon. Her friend, now her girlfriend, Maddie, was also present. Very brave girls. It was not long before huge pride coursed through my veins. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

Amelia, Poppy and Daisy, you mean absolutely everything to me.