“Our childhood always possesses a certain power over our minds which hardly any later friend can obtain.” Mary Shelley, Frankenstein How I got to Ashbank Remand Home is still unclear, what I thought happened did not, after talking to others, my sister, research and memories triggered by my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I now believe I know what happened and if not exact, it satisfies me and does not need to satisfy anyone else, offering an explanation and completes the puzzle. I knew the Remand Home’s Superintendent and a Judge played a part, and I can now add the Headmaster of my primary school in Acomb, plus the family vicar. I was a shy but feral child growing up in a small village on outskirts of York, my antics did upset and cause concern to most of the village, which were a few notches up on the class barometer, upper white middle. I had broken into a few garages, sheds, one of which had a stash of homemade elderberry wine in it, which I got drunk on, threw up, was ill and then beaten by my dad while still the colour of a Martian, I entered un-locked houses with friends, burnt down fences, bust a few windows, smashed up sheds, one that had been turned into a Wendy House, and stolen sweets from local shops before the age of seven, not good by any standards. So naturally I thought I had done something wrong and sent to Ashbank by the court systems, but I had never gone to court! Over the years this had built into a mystery, however my sister believes what happened was, around that time my step-brother was dying of leukaemia and the attention of the family must of focused on him, I was still up to all sorts, so the local vicar got involved and the conclusion my sister recalls was, I was sent away for therapy and to get help, they sent me to Ashbank Remand Home, unlawfully and for correctional education purposes. Firstly, I was never on “remand” and secondly, I was to young to be sent to a remand home. It is over fifty years ago I was sent to Ashbank for what was described as Correctional Education, a title created to validate an unjust and abusive form of punishment created by four powerful figures in the community unlawfully, plus the local council, York, must have played a part somehow and in some way as they were in charge of the institute. I was not going to start this blog on my first day at Ashbank but on my last. In 2015 I was driving to work passing Ashbank on my way in, a FOR SALE sign had been erected. I had driven passed Ashbank thousands of times, only a few of those times my thoughts returned to my time there. On this day with the sign staring me in the face, my stomach churned, and I wanted to throw up, I turned the car around and parked up onto the driveway at Ashbank sitting there blank and void of all feeling, staring at my personal Amityville. I drove into work and made a call to the City of York Council Deputy Lead of Children’s Services, Eoin Rush, a man who I had got to know through my work and simply asked the question, “could I go and look round Ashbank?” I had previously mentioned I was there as a boy, he was extremely supportive and understanding, apologising unofficially on his and the Councils behalf of what I had gone through, I guess he’d heard the rumours too. Within two weeks everything had been arranged, my sister-in-law, a child sexual exploitation worker, came with me. We were due to meet a lady from Children’s Services and the Caretaker of the now empty building at 9am. I cannot thank my sister-in-law enough for being there with me and both of the staff were faultless. For those who know Ashbank, they will see the old main building, a large house made from cream coloured bricks from the Victorian era, no doubt built for a family with money and next to an imposing Vicarage. It has a small wall at the front and a great big extension built onto its right side looking from the front. The extension looks horrible and the old house must have felt embarrassed as a Prom Queen with a boil on the end of her nose on prom night. It is not in keeping and looks like a 1970s school building stuck on. Obviously, this was added after I left, my assumption it was built as part of the buildings new role servicing the Council’s needs, which no doubt passed by the planning department office, and signed off by some council lead and their builder pal holding his hand out for a backhander. The lads who were at Ashbank at the time laboured on the build, not a bad thing on the surface although others would disagree. There was the dark rumour by the kids that children were buried under the foundation. I’ll say now I believe this is totally unfounded, before North Yorkshire Police rush round with Jack Hammers, scanners a tent, teabag suits and a clipboard. However, I really would not be surprised if children died from extreme torture and the abuse, they received at Ashbank. Children were often not there in the morning, obviously, this can be easily explained by illness and ship-outs. As we stood outside waiting for our guides, certain things flooded back, and I found myself describing the tiled floor in the main hallway. The entrance door was no doubt the same one, the only time I went through that imposing front door was on my first day, at all other times you went through the side door, which has had a small addition added since I was there. I was a little nervous but not scared and did not feel sick like I had done when looking at the FOR SALE sign a couple of weeks before. Our guides arrived and were absolutely brilliant, taking us through the side entrance. Throughout the visit they respectfully gave me time to absorb everything, standing away when I needed my own thoughts or sharing conversations as we followed the Caretaker. I was actually excited as we walked around the first floor which was bizarre and didn’t fit. The floor was exactly as I had described, and the reception hatch still there, as was the Superintendents main office. The biggest shock for me was the size, it was all tiny, really, tiny. The “hall” was just a large room, the grand staircase a normal staircase, although the reception room was bigger than I remembered. We wandered around the ground floor and I was chatting away, with memories flooding back, bizarrely it was like I was visiting Butlins or something. As we entered the “hall”, or now large room, screams of children echoed in my ears and my guts began to turn, it went from Butlins to the House Pennywise the clown lived in the film IT, but I was OK. However, when I opened the door to the Superintendent’s Office, I could see the him stood behind his desk, he always stood never sat, I guess it made him seem more powerful to us little kids. Passing the staircase, I was genuinely shocked how small it was, what I was not ready for was the under stairs cupboard, it stopped me in my tracks and I inwardly wept. I had to move on quickly making some comments as the Caretaker took the lead into the “kitchen”. This is where my memory span as something was wrong, it did not look or feel right, it was simply not the kitchen, The Caretaker assured me it was and had always been there. Those who were at Ashbank Remand Home will never forget the kitchen or more so that bitch who ran it, our very own Pennywise, our own Wicked Witch of the West, our very own Irma Grese, the Superintendents psychotic evil mother or mother-in-law. I knew you passed the under stairs cupboard to get the kitchen, so went back there, walking along a small corridor that opened up into a large room, the brickwork arches smacked me in the face, and I went deathly cold, this was the kitchen. The Caretaker seemed genuinely surprised if not a little pleased to find out more about the building he’d looked after for a number of years. My point was proved when we traced the imprint of some old water pipes, verifying the existence of a kitchens water supply. Someone, I think my Sister-in-law opened a door to a small room, it was the old pantry where that bitch would keep and hide you after another beating, burning, or scalding she had administered. It was time to leave and go upstairs. How I did not wet myself walking up those stairs I will never know, super-bladder springs to mind, as I had wet myself there many times years before. I could not remember a thing about the second floor apart from two things, hooks embedded into the wall, I always thought they were in the “Hall”, had there been more than I remembered, or had they been removed? Because of this I quickly walked out of the rooms. I think the Caretaker sensed I was getting nervous and asked if I wanted to go to the next floor, the third floor, THE THIRD FLOOR, I had totally forgotten about the third floor, how could I have forgotten? The staircase is smaller than the other one, it turns to the right going up, a little creepy and a perfect setting for a horror film, which is absolutely appropriate. I imagined the third floor is where the servant’s quarters would have been when the house was first built for the Victorian family. As I led the way, my Sister-in-law close behind me, I wanted to grab her hand like a little boy, to reassure me, hug me and tell me it would be OK, an overwhelming feeling of confused peace and fear overcame me, right in front of me was a deep forgotten memory, four small wooden steps in front of a window leading outside onto the roof, I was transported there in an instance a curled up small boy sobbing. Those steps offered a moment of solace and sanctuary in a building straight out of hell. Visually the steps look out of place, in their construction and colour, an afterthought made for practical use maybe, steps leading to a window and not a door, room or hallway. I could not say if they were the original ones, but right there and then they felt they were. I would sit or lay on them full of sores, bruises, scalds, burns and tears for as long as I could before being caught, reported, laughed at or bullied. Open doorways were along the corridor, I’m unsure how many as fear suddenly gripped me and I refused to enter the rooms and stated it was time to go. We thanked our guides, if they happen to be reading this, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. We got into the car and drove the three miles to work, feelings and hidden memories spinning in my mind, my breakdown was starting as I left the house haunted by the ghosts of children still being tormented and tortured by staff who continued to roam its rooms and corridors searching for them, searching for me. A few months later I was in a child protection meeting at the local pupil referral unit, and suddenly tears started rolling down my eyes, my PTSD had been triggered. *a forgotten boy