Hateland (37 page)

     Things hear are as boring as usual, Someone keeps writing Kill on the walls, what he writes isn't disturbing but the fact he writes it in his own shit is, this is what the place is like,

     I think about us every night you know how, I think of us being together, doing such exciting things, illigal and dangerous. I wonder when we will finally meet, soon i hope Anyway thats all for now, 

   Dave.

     Bewitched by the character he and I had created, he seemed to spend his time in rapturous fantasy, imagining exploits with his enchanting admirer. I'd already secured one significant admission from him: I hoped more would follow.

He wrote again two days later on 30 January: 

Dear Patsy,

     How are you, I thought id write again as I can't get you out of my mind, all i do is dream about you and when we shall finally meet which would be after my trial hopefully, It wouldn't cost that much on the train

     Anyway what have you been up to, hows your Job going in Peterborough, things hear are the same as usual, waiting for my trial having conversations with a bunch of halfwits your letters are the only sane thing left in my life right now and I always look forward to hearing from you

     I had my mum and brother visit me the other day, it was good to see them but I wish it was you sitting opporsite me holding hands under the table?

     What sort of music do you like Patsy, I got a screwdriver album sent in the other day by a friend on the out, Its really quit good full of racist chants, maybe not your cup of tea, Promise me Patsy you will never forget about me as you are the only good thing left in my life. 

   In the morning the sun 

   might shine

     and I know that one day

   you'll be mine

     You know your really the best 

   I can't wait to nuzzel your breast. 

Sorry about the poetry but I like writing to you, Anyway thats all for know. 

   Love Dave.

     PS Whens your birthday?

     His poems were as crude as his bombs. My strategy of making Patsy more passionate and less innocent had borne fruit. I'd begun signing letters 'with love and lust'. At last, Copeland had found, or unwittingly created, the woman of his dreams.

     However, I was glad he thought the music of the Nazi band Skrewdriver (about asylum-seekers being burnt in their beds and the like) probably wasn't Patsy's cup of tea. She'd never expressed

     racial prejudices, if only because I doubted whether many innocent country girls burnt with hatred for blacks and Asians. He replied on 2 February:

Dear Patsy,

     how are you and what have you been up to, sorry my letters are short but its hard to write a few lines while im on thes drugs, you must know I'm on thes drugs for no reason.

     So anyway how are you, has there been anything good on the internet about me and do you still get crank calls from others on the web, becarefiil and dont tell anyone that you write to me as they may not be who they say they are . . .

     In an earlier effort to make Patsy seem real, I'd mentioned she'd received a few crank calls after posting her own details on a Nazi website in order to download material about him. I'd wanted to underline Patsy's vulnerability and her desire to put herself in danger for her man. I'd also hoped to provoke him into talking about any Internet contacts he might have had with Nazis.

     I said Patsy had no interest in casual relationships. But, just to fray his nerves and to try to capture his explosive side, I sent her to more parties, although I gave him the opportunity to restrict her freedom. Patsy asked him if he minded her going to parties without him.

     On 4 February, he wrote:

Dear Patsy,

     . . . Sorry if in my letters I don't mention things you ask, I just sit down and write to you, spilling my mind out on the paper, Its frustrating for me as well not being able to phone you as since writing to you I have become madly in love with you, having you on my mind all day and night but we'll just have to be patient,

     So your moving again, sounds loverly where you live all those wide open spacies, im a country boy at heart, don't worry about going to parties As long as you are happy thats all that matters to me, have a few drinks for me when your

     there, things are the same as usual, got another black lunatic on the ward now but they keep him locked up,

I agree with you that Casual relationships are a waste off time to many aids victims walking around.

     So your getting your hair changed you must send me in a photo of your new apperence so when we finally get to meet ill know who to look out for, you could shave your hair of and it wouldn't bother me you'll still be the same old patsy . . .

     I did feel a twinge of unease at his declaration of love, but I couldn't forget what the bastard and his bombs had done. Nor could I forget the threats from his sad comrades. I knew what I was doing was cruel. But so was blowing up women and children. The X-ray picture of a huge nail embedded in a child's skull always came to mind when I felt tempted towards compassion for Copeland. I could only feel something for him when I remembered that he, too, had once been a child.

     Deep down, I knew his expression of 'love' represented nothing more than an attempt to enclose his imagined enchantress in a firmer embrace in case she might be tempted to slip from virtue at one of those parties. He'd tried to portray himself as tolerant and trusting, but he'd slipped in a warning - the link between casual relationships and AIDS. In other words, 'Go to your parties, but death will be the price of a drunken fling.'

     I played things down. I told him to be realistic and not to let his imagination run away with him. I said he didn't know Patsy well enough to love her - he'd never met her and he hadn't even spoken to her on the phone. I suggested that when he met her in the flesh, she might turn out very different from what he imagined. Very different indeed.

     I tried to milk him for information about his Nazi friends - the friends that Scotland Yard had seemed at first to think didn't exist. I'd been following the debate about him on the Nazi websites: people questioned whether he'd ever been a member of the BNP. Some suggested he was a police agent who'd carried out the bombings to discredit the far-right. I told him about these discussions. I also asked him to send photos. I wanted to see his favourite image of himself. I held out the possibility of sending more photos of Patsy in exchange.

     He replied on 10 February:

Dear Patsy,

     How are you and what's been going on down your way? Things here are the same as usual.

     I'm back in court on the 28th of this month which I'm not looking forward to. Being the certre of attention is not me. Some people might enjoy this but not me. Everyone's eyes are fixated on you all the time, but I'm strong and can handle this.

     It was funny to hear that people are arguing about me being a member of the BNP. I must admit that I was a member for about three months and didn't take it seriously. I went to a few meetings . . .

     It crossed my mind that someone who didn't like being the centre of attention shouldn't have embarked on a bombing campaign that gripped London in fear for three weeks. And if Patsy had wanted to be sarcastic she might have asked why, if he didn't enjoy being scrutinised by the public eye, he kept begging for news of what was being said about him. But these were questions a woman like Patsy wouldn't have dared raise. Instead, I made her stress again he shouldn't fall in love with her, because she couldn't say for sure she loved him. She could only say she cared about him deeply.

     To boost his ego, and give him hope, I added that Patsy felt so confused about her feelings that she spent a lot of time crying about him. 'Crying with laughter' would have been nearer the truth.

On 12 February, he wrote: 

Dear Patsy,

     How are you, and what have you been doing lately, I got your last letter and was saddened about you crying, It made me happy in a way that someone cares for me, you are right saying I sounded low, this place can really get to me, the

     only thing that keeps me going is you and your letters

     Im sorry if I say that I love you but its what I feel and I cant hold it back, you are all I have at the moment and im not prepared to loose you, sorry if I sound all mushy, but in the future you'll be able to visit me and get to know me alot better, the only side you know is of the media, im alot different to how they say i am, its hard for me to wright this as I am a bit shy but it feels that I known you forever,

     Im not very good at writing letters thats why I only used to write to you once a week but know I write at least 2 times as im frightened I might loose you, I had my mum come and visit the other day, I feel sorry for her, as she has to put up with alot,

     At night I stare at that photo you sent and wonder what would of happened if I didn't do what they say i've done, the only good thing is that ive met you, write back soon, 

   Love Dave.

     I'd been resisting his love onslaught, if only because I had no interest in his feelings for Patsy, only in what made him and his bombs tick. However, what he'd written astonished me. He seemed to be saying he could have been redeemed by the love of a good woman. I suspected that, like my other 'penfriends', he hadn't had much love and affection in his life. His words contained a powerful hint of regret, not regret for his victims, of course, just regret that he'd now never be able to build a life with the woman he believed he loved.

     In other letters, he'd shown how he loathed 'normality' (probably because, I suspected, he'd been denied it as a child). Yet, like me, deep down he craved it. Patsy sent him a Valentine's card, even though I guessed he probably associated St Valentine's Day only with the legendary gangster massacre. He forgot to send Patsy one.

     He wrote to apologise on 18 February, 'I must confess that I forgot about it and didn't send you a card, there must be thousands off people explaining this to the ones they love right now.' He added:

. . . this place is a joke im told im a patient but im treated like a criminal, like some garden variety thief,

     Its strange that you want to know me and why I did what I did I believe in fate and that we were meant to meet someway or another in our lives, and that we were supposed to have some sort of a relationship

     Does any of your family or friends know you write to me, I wonder what there reaction would be, maybe they would want a autograph?

     Perhaps the drugs made Copeland think people might want his autograph on anything other than a suicide note.

CHAPTER 18

BUNCH OF QUACKS

I hadn't discussed with Copeland how he intended pleading at his trial. There'd been rumours, floated in newspapers, that, despite the evidence against him, he planned pleading not guilty. Journalists suggested he wanted to use the trial as a platform to put across his Nazi views. But I felt sure he'd take the insanity route.

     The television news on 24 February 2000 confirmed my guess. Copeland had appeared at the Old Bailey to enter a preliminary plea of guilty to causing the three explosions, but not guilty to murder. Instead, he admitted manslaughter due to diminished responsibility. He wanted the jury at his forthcoming trial to accept he was mad, not bad.

     According to the news reports, as Copeland pleaded not guilty to the first murder, his victims' relatives began shouting and sobbing. Cries of 'shame' and 'send him down' greeted his other pleas. Copeland's barrister told the judge his client suffered from schizophrenia, delusions and emotional disorders that justified the diminished-responsibility pleas. The prosecution still wanted to convict him of murder. The judge set a date in June for the trial.

     It was clear to me that Copeland wasn't mad - at least not in the legal sense. He seemed a lot saner than many of my friends, including Adolf. I'd received a letter from Copeland in which he stated he'd fooled the doctors. But, more than that, his other letters showed him sane enough to know the difference between right and wrong - and sane enough to choose between the two. When I'd started the correspondence, I'd hoped to get him writing about bombs and murder. But he'd avoided those subjects in case the censors found something to use against him. He didn't realise the correspondence as a whole could be used against him. With every letter - mundane though the content often was - he produced more evidence of his legal sanity. I felt I had almost everything I needed to nail him. I knew I just had to keep him writing. The more letters he produced, the better.

     In his next letter, written on 8 March, he told Patsy about his day in court:

Dear Patsy,

How are you and what have you been getting up to, I was up in court the other day and gave my plea, there was so many people there it was weird, I feel alot better for saying I was guilty, a few people gave a few sneers but that is understandable,

     Patsy I am no monster but some kind of terrorist, someone who puts them selves forward for what they believe in, on a good note least you know what I look like after my photo was splashed over the papers and TV, least now I dont have to get my mother to send you one, It was Strang for me waking up a having a nurse give me a paper with my photo on the front, im still waiting to see you with your new haircut, ill stick to my wall with my 1 and only photo of you so that you can watch over me, anyway that's all for know.