Carer killed my brother
this man preyed on my poor brother for cold, hard cash
Snuggled up in bed next to my little brother Paul, 5, I opened the book and began to read.
Wide-eyed, with his head on my shoulder, he hung onto every word.
‘I love Thomas the Tank Engine,’ he beamed as I finished the last page. ‘My favourite.’
‘I know,’ I smiled.
A few months earlier, Paul had been hit by a car.
He’d been in a coma and we were warned he wouldn’t survive.
But he fought back – and, as he grew stronger, I’d cuddle up beside him in his hospital bed, and read Thomas The Tank Engine books to keep him occupied.
Though I was only two years older, I loved looking after Paul. He was quiet and shy and he hated any confrontation.
I saw it as my job to stick up for him. And all through school, I did just that.
‘You’re like a little mother hen,’ my mum Josie would say.
In time, I married and had five children, Stephen, Melissa, Nicola, Simon and Kimberley.
Paul grew up to become an engineer, worked in Germany.
He played in a pipe band and was a talented guitarist, too.
He got married and had three children – he was a wonderful dad to them and his wife’s first child.
But, when he was 39, Paul started having some problems with his health. He’d shake uncontrollably. And he’d stagger, too, as though he was drunk.
Paul had never been a drinker, he didn’t even like the taste of alcohol.
We couldn’t work out what was wrong. He saw his GP and had a string of tests.
Eventually, he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.
He was devastated.
‘I don’t know what I’m going to do, Julie,’ he said. ‘It scares me.’
I felt dreadful for him.
‘I’m here for you,’ I promised.
The next year, Paul’s marriage broke down and he found himself living alone. He had to stop work, too, because of his illness.
I found myself looking after him again, mothering him, just like when we were little. He came to live with me for a while, but he didn’t settle.
I understood he needed his independence. Paul was quiet, but he was proud and stubborn.
And I knew he didn’t like me knowing he was feeling down.
He moved into a little flat in Manchester and I’d visit him every week or so.
Me and my kids Nicola and
I loved looking after Paul. he was quiet and shy
Stephen kept a close eye on him, taking food parcels and helping with his washing.
Paul seemed to be coping well. He had a mobility scooter, was out and about most days.
He liked to visit our dad Eddie and our cousins.
When Paul was 50, I threw him a big birthday bash. We had a great time.
But at the start of 2015, I got bad news about my own health.
I needed surgery for a tumour behind my eye. Then doctors told me it was cancerous.
I was shell-shocked. I needed surgery – and, although that worked, it took me months to recover and I went blind in one eye.
Of course, with poor eyesight, I was unable to drive.
Instead, I enlisted my son Stephen, and daughters Melissa and Nicola to visit Paul, and occasionally they’d pick him up and bring him to see me.
Stephen took him money over the summer. And Nicola visited, taking shopping and treats.
But after one trip, Nicola said, ‘Mum, I’m worried about Uncle Paul. He seems really depressed.’ It got worse. ‘There were lads hanging around his flat. I didn’t like the look of them,’ Nicola continued. ‘The door was damaged, as if someone had tried to force it. But Uncle Paul told me not to worry.’
I sighed. I knew that Paul wouldn’t stand up to anyone, he never had. And he was even more vulnerable now, because of his health.
My cousin Billy went to check on him. And he was concerned, too.
‘I don’t know what to do about him,’ he told me. ‘I left him with some money, but there were a few blokes in his flat and I didn’t feel comfortable.’
‘He needs his big sister,’ I decided. But he never answered the phone. I couldn’t visit because I’d needed another operation.
My children visited him, and he didn’t answer the door.
So when it came to his birthday that July, I put some money in an envelope for him, along with a birthday card and a very stern letter.
Stop messing around and get in touch, I wrote. You’ve got me
worried silly. Pick up the phone... I’m really cross!
I heard nothing. The letter went unanswered. Paul never answered the door or the phone.
I began to wonder if he was upset with me.
Then, on New Year’s Eve 2015, I was busy cleaning my house when there was a knock at the door.
It was my son Stephen and Paul’s daughter Zowie.
I could see that something dreadful had happened.
‘The police have been in touch,’ Stephen said. ‘It’s Paul, Mum. He’s dead...’
he didn’t answer the door or the phone...
My knees buckled and I collapsed.
‘No!’ I screamed. ‘Not my baby brother!’ I was heartbroken. I presumed that the MS had killed him.
But then the police called me. I listened in horror.
I didn’t take it all in, because of the shock. I think an officer explained that Paul had been taken to hospital by an ambulance, his body covered with injuries. There, he’d died. A man was under arrest. ‘Who could hurt a man like Paul?’ I gasped, horrified.
We didn’t learn the devastating truth until February this year, when Christopher Mcallister, 30, appeared at Manchester Crown Court and denied manslaughter.
It emerged that Mcallister was a neighbour of Paul’s and had appointed himself as Paul’s carer. He was receiving a £62-a-week carer’s allowance.
Carer? We’d never even heard of him! Paul hadn’t mentioned his name to us.
Yet Mcallister claimed he’d been looking after Paul for eight months, 35 hours a week.
The court heard that my brother had been malnourished and weighed just 7st when he’d died.
In the run-up to Paul’s death, Mcallister had been seen
kicking and hitting Paul after he’d soiled himself. Despicable. And when my brother had been taken to hospital, he had 80 injuries, including broken ribs, lacerations on both ears, a stamp mark on his head and two black eyes. Some injuries had started to heal, meaning they were inflicted weeks before. His official cause of death was pneumonia, but the judge told Mcallister that he was satisfied that Paul ‘died as a result of your blows’. I was sickened. Mcallister claimed that Paul had sustained his injuries by repeated falls. He denied ever harming him – and, in a statement to police, he said he’d treated Paul ‘like a king’ adding, ‘I have lost my best friend and am absolutely devastated.’ Cruel lies. Mcallister was found guilty of manslaughter, sentenced to 10 years. I’m still angry. No checks were made to ensure Mcallister was fit to be a carer. He was known to police for drunkenness and the unlawful use of a baseball bat. Yet he was deemed fit to look after my brother. Paul had been let down. I’ll always feel that I let him down, too. I was his big sister.
On this occasion, when he needed me most, I wasn’t there.
I tried so hard to reach Paul but it wasn’t enough.
Now I’m campaigning for stricter checks for carers and the carer’s allowance. In Paul’s memory, we must make sure that this never happens again.
My brother weighed just 7st when he died