‘I am the mother of a murdered child and I have no rights’

9:26am Tuesday 4th March 2008

When her eldest son was stabbed to death four years ago, Theresa Cave thought her world had fallen apart.

Deborah Johnson meets the woman who, inspired by 17-year-old Chris's memory, has battled her grief to challenge the legal system to ensure that a life sentence means life

THERESA Cave is sitting in her living room, chatting about the weather and how pleasant Redcar sea front is. Her seven-yearold son sits in front of the television, staring intently at the screen, totally engrossed in his favourite programme.

The image is of a typical happy, carefree young boy, living in blissful family surroundings.

Our conversation turns to little Thomas and what he wants to be when he grows up. "I want to be Peter Pan," he says. I smile and remark to Theresa on his rather unusual choice. "It's because Peter Pan never dies," she replies, her eyes welling up with tears. "He'll never grow up to be murdered. The bad man can never come and get him."

It's at that moment it dawns on me that Thomas, though the picture of contentment, is not the typical seven-year-old with the happy, carefree existence.

Since his brother Chris was savagely murdered four years ago, days before Thomas's third birthday, he has been forced to carry the almost unbearable burden of grief on his tiny shoulders, plagued by nightmares that a bad man' will stab him to death in his sleep. He has even tried to drown himself in his bath so he could be reunited with his beloved Chrissy'.

"It's been hell, for both of us, but we've taken every step together,"

says Theresa, beaming with pride at her son. "He's been my rock.

We laugh together, cry together, there's nothing we don't discuss. But he's the proof in the pudding that you can get through the most unbearable of times. He is an inspiration."

S e v e n t e e n - y e a r - o l d Chris was stabbed to death only yards from his home in Burnmoor Close, Redcar, in June 2003. He was knifed four times in a nearby flat while trying to protect his friend from drug-crazed intruder Sean Matson.

It was Theresa who cradled her son during the last seconds of his life. Happily, Thomas remained in his own bed, sound asleep, unaware of the tragedy unfolding outside.

Matson received a life sentence, with a minimum tariff of 12 years for his crime. Aged 20 when he killed Chris, he could be free by the time he is 32.

Now, Thomas, as well as Chris - whose photograph takes pride of place in the living room - are Theresa's inspirations for her campaign to ensure that a life sentence means just that.

"I've been called everything for trying to get things to change, and people have said I'm vengeful, looking for someone to blame, and am only out for my pound of flesh. I've endured that since I first started campaigning at the end of 2003, it's unbelievable,"

she says.

"I am the mother of a murdered child and I have no rights whatsoever. If I were honest, I would say that if I took time out to recuperate in some way, then I would end up going insane. That is why I am constantly on the go, fighting the fight and whoever it is responsible for this country and its pathetic laws.

"But I won't stop, not ever. I will crawl on my hands and knees if I think there's a way I can get something to change."

While she has been overawed by the support of the local community - 8,000 of whom signed a petition backing her crusade - Theresa says she is continually disappointed with the reaction from the Government.

"I have tried and tried to get them to listen, but nothing. When John Reid was Home Secretary, he promised for three years he'd come to visit me, but he never did. Even when I sent that petition I got no acknowledgement. And then when I finally did get to put my questions to the new Home Secretary, Jacqui Smith, on GMTV, she ignored me.

"This country has got big problems. I know everyone goes through stages where they rebel - I remember when I was younger, we used to knock on people's doors and run away, and that was seen as being terrible. But now, when kids walk round with crowbars and knives, you realise what a state we're in. It's all gone to pot."

Theresa confesses to being deeply affected by the death of Gary Newlove, the father-of-three beaten to death by a gang of yobs for trying to defend his own property.

She can fully identify with the outpourings of grief from his widow Helen.

"Watching her on television brought it all back, my heart really went out to her.

I know exactly what she feels," she says.

"She's calling for hanging to be brought back, and while I'm with her on that one all the way, it will never, ever happen.

With the greatest respect to her, the more you shout and scream about things like that, the less likely it is to happen. No matter what changes are made, there's this thing called human rights to consider now.

It's just a pity that seems to be more about the offenders rather than the victims of violent crime."

Tears begin to well up again. Memories of that fateful night continue to haunt Theresa and the pain of the past four years is etched on her face. I ask whether the grief becomes easier with time.

"It never gets any easier," she replies, immediately.

"You can never, ever get over it. They talk about the seven stages of grief, but there are so many different stages you have to go through, and you can't tell when they will come to you. You could be walking along the street then burst into tears.

"You've just got to learn to manage it until you are on your own and you can allow your grief to do what it has to do.

But you can't let your grief turn to poison - that will get you nowhere at all. You have got to be strong and not let it beat you."

One of the main ways Theresa managed her grief was to keep a log of her emotions. Her diary - which includes memories of her childhood and raising Chris, through to the tragic night on which he was killed and her wild emotions afterwards - has now been drafted as a book manuscript and Theresa is looking for a publisher.

From the bittersweet memory of their flat being broken into days before Christmas when Chris was eight and his presents being stolen - to which he said "I don't care about toys, mam, as long as I've still got you" - to the graphic description of her precious son's stab wounds as he lay in the hospital mortuary, Theresa has logged her every emotion.

"Writing the diary helped me to come to terms with what had happened. I could easily have gone out screaming, shouting, letting out all my hurt and anger. But I couldn't let that happen. I had Thomas to think about."

Although Thomas is clearly her pride and joy, the light of her life, Chris - named after his grandfather, who died when Theresa was a teenager - is never far away.

She frequently looks at the photograph of her beaming son throughout our conversation.

"I feel like that photo is speaking to me, his eyes " she says, drifting away in her own thoughts.

"I remember the morning that photo was taken, he wanted blond tips put in the fringe of his hair. I said to him What if it turns out wrong?' but he wanted them doing. He got his fringe cut in the end before he got the photo done and he looked beautiful.

"My mam, Betty, talks to him in the photo - she says goodnight when she goes to bed, and when she gets up in the morning, she says It's another nice day, son'.

He's never far away."

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