On October 13, 2008, I saw for the first time the three men who murdered my brother Ben. They walked into a courtroom at the Old Bailey with their heads lowered, their eyes looking everywhere but at me and my parents.
I was sitting next to the dock and if I reached out, I could have touched the one nearest to me. There was no glass, no barrier - they weren't even in handcuffs. I fought the urge to jump on them, to hurt them, to scream at them and demand: 'Why?'
They were in court that day to state how they would plead. The first, Jade Braithwaite, looked ahead and said firmly: 'Not guilty.' My heart sank.
I was sitting next to the dock and if I reached out, I could have touched the one nearest to me. There was no glass, no barrier - they weren't even in handcuffs. I fought the urge to jump on them, to hurt them, to scream at them and demand: 'Why?'
They were in court that day to state how they would plead. The first, Jade Braithwaite, looked ahead and said firmly: 'Not guilty.' My heart sank.
Then the second, Michael Alleyne, said: 'Not guilty,' his voice full of attitude. The third, baby-faced Juress Kika, choked on his words and mumbled so quietly that the court clerk asked him to repeat his plea. 'Not guilty,' he whispered a second time. It was then that my suspicions were realised: these men knew what they had done that night.
Kika had given away his fear and their guilt, and I prayed everybody would see it. At last, surely, I would get justice for my brother. Some members of the defendants' families made our ordeal a hundred times more difficult. I never expected help from them, but I wasn't prepared for the intimidation, violence and pure nastiness of certain relatives.
To physically attack my friends and family, to spit on them and call them 'scum' and other disgusting names, to sing 'who let the dogs out' as we walked by, to have the audacity to tell my dad to 'walk away and have respect' - I could never understand any of it. Their behaviour was despicable. Yet every time we reported them to the court security staff and our police liaison officer, we were told that CCTV footage showed nothing.
Events came to a head the day that one person apparently said about my brother: 'So what? He's dead anyway.' These words were said to one of Ben's best friends and when he lost his temper and began shouting, a male relation of one of the defendants grabbed him by the throat and threw him against a wall. Once again we complained, but this intimidating thug was back at court the next day.
As if to add insult to injury, my sister Jade was warned she wouldn't be allowed in court if she was caught looking at the men who had killed her brother. Yet their families could physically and verbally attack us with no consequences. It seemed wrong. It was all about giving the defendants a fair trial - but when would anyone recognise the injustice done to us?...
Ben was murdered on Sunday, June 29, 2008. He was 16. I have used many words in connection with my brother over the years --annoying and lazy among them --but never did I think I would place his name next to a terrible word such as murder.
He was stabbed to death on the day I was supposed to be moving out of our family home in Islington, North London. I didn't really want to leave but my mother Deborah convinced me to give it a try after 24 years wrapped in the soft, comfy cotton wool of a home filled with noise and laughter, love and affection.
Kika had given away his fear and their guilt, and I prayed everybody would see it. At last, surely, I would get justice for my brother. Some members of the defendants' families made our ordeal a hundred times more difficult. I never expected help from them, but I wasn't prepared for the intimidation, violence and pure nastiness of certain relatives.
To physically attack my friends and family, to spit on them and call them 'scum' and other disgusting names, to sing 'who let the dogs out' as we walked by, to have the audacity to tell my dad to 'walk away and have respect' - I could never understand any of it. Their behaviour was despicable. Yet every time we reported them to the court security staff and our police liaison officer, we were told that CCTV footage showed nothing.
Events came to a head the day that one person apparently said about my brother: 'So what? He's dead anyway.' These words were said to one of Ben's best friends and when he lost his temper and began shouting, a male relation of one of the defendants grabbed him by the throat and threw him against a wall. Once again we complained, but this intimidating thug was back at court the next day.
As if to add insult to injury, my sister Jade was warned she wouldn't be allowed in court if she was caught looking at the men who had killed her brother. Yet their families could physically and verbally attack us with no consequences. It seemed wrong. It was all about giving the defendants a fair trial - but when would anyone recognise the injustice done to us?...
Ben was murdered on Sunday, June 29, 2008. He was 16. I have used many words in connection with my brother over the years --annoying and lazy among them --but never did I think I would place his name next to a terrible word such as murder.
He was stabbed to death on the day I was supposed to be moving out of our family home in Islington, North London. I didn't really want to leave but my mother Deborah convinced me to give it a try after 24 years wrapped in the soft, comfy cotton wool of a home filled with noise and laughter, love and affection.
It might not have been that way. My sister Jade and I have the same father but when I was six our parents split. Our mother brought up us alone until she met George, a taxi driver who had two children of his own, Christopher and Holly.
Over the years, George went from being my stepfather to just being Dad. And the thing I love about him most is that he gave us Ben and my 14-year-old sister Georgia. Our parents always did the best for us. Mum enrolled me at the nearby Anna Scher drama school, not because I had talent but because she hoped it would dispel my shyness.
Even when I landed a part on EastEnders, playing Kelly Taylor, I lived at home. The role was supposed to last only eight episodes but I ended up being in the BBC show for three years.
Ben never boasted that I was his sister after I became a sort of celebrity. If anything, he was embarrassed, especially when I appeared in photoshoots for some lads' magazines. Lounging around in a bikini, I would feel glamorous and sexy, but I never considered that Ben's mates would leer at the pictures.
My brother was always hardworking, a clown with a contagious laugh and a smile that could melt you. I had gone shopping the day before Ben's death, stopping at the internet cafe where he worked. I handed him a burger from McDonald's, which he ate in two bites. He said he would see me later, I gave him a kiss and walked away.
I went home that night after performing in a play in Hackney to find the house empty except for Christopher. Mum, Dad and Georgia were away for the weekend and Jade, who is three years younger than me, was out partying. Ben, apparently, had come home from work before going back out to meet his friends.
Over the years, George went from being my stepfather to just being Dad. And the thing I love about him most is that he gave us Ben and my 14-year-old sister Georgia. Our parents always did the best for us. Mum enrolled me at the nearby Anna Scher drama school, not because I had talent but because she hoped it would dispel my shyness.
Even when I landed a part on EastEnders, playing Kelly Taylor, I lived at home. The role was supposed to last only eight episodes but I ended up being in the BBC show for three years.
Ben never boasted that I was his sister after I became a sort of celebrity. If anything, he was embarrassed, especially when I appeared in photoshoots for some lads' magazines. Lounging around in a bikini, I would feel glamorous and sexy, but I never considered that Ben's mates would leer at the pictures.
My brother was always hardworking, a clown with a contagious laugh and a smile that could melt you. I had gone shopping the day before Ben's death, stopping at the internet cafe where he worked. I handed him a burger from McDonald's, which he ate in two bites. He said he would see me later, I gave him a kiss and walked away.
I went home that night after performing in a play in Hackney to find the house empty except for Christopher. Mum, Dad and Georgia were away for the weekend and Jade, who is three years younger than me, was out partying. Ben, apparently, had come home from work before going back out to meet his friends.
When our home phone rang at 2.30am, I stumbled out of bed to pick it up, half asleep and half in fear. 'Brooke,' said Jade. 'Something's happened to Ben.'
'What?' I whispered. There was the sound of sobbing. 'He's been stabbed,' she said.
Christopher and I got to hospital at 3am after waiting for what seemed an eternity for a taxi to arrive. I remember kneeling in the road outside my house, crying and praying for the cab to hurry up, for Jade's words to be a big mistake, for my brother to be OK.
As we arrived, Jade fell on me, sobbing. I begged her for information but she knew nothing more. A friend who had been at the scene had called her with the news that Ben had been stabbed. By this time, my parents were rushing along a motorway, desperately trying to reach the hospital.
A nurse told me that Ben had a stab wound to his stomach, two to his lungs and one in his chest that had punctured his heart.
My parents got to the hospital at 4.30am, by which time my boyfriend Ray had also arrived. Georgia, Ben's best friend and mortal enemy rolled into one, looked heartbroken.
The surgeon came in to see us. He said Ben had lost 30 pints of blood - the average young boy's body holds seven pints. After thanking him for his efforts, someone in our group asked the surgeon about Ben's chances of survival. 'Fifty-fifty,' he replied.
A nurse then took my parents to Ben's bedside but they returned to our waiting room just five minutes later - his condition had begun to deteriorate. Ten minutes later, the doctors came in and uttered the words that will haunt us forever: 'We're really sorry but we think he is going to die. You'd better come.'
'What?' I whispered. There was the sound of sobbing. 'He's been stabbed,' she said.
Christopher and I got to hospital at 3am after waiting for what seemed an eternity for a taxi to arrive. I remember kneeling in the road outside my house, crying and praying for the cab to hurry up, for Jade's words to be a big mistake, for my brother to be OK.
As we arrived, Jade fell on me, sobbing. I begged her for information but she knew nothing more. A friend who had been at the scene had called her with the news that Ben had been stabbed. By this time, my parents were rushing along a motorway, desperately trying to reach the hospital.
A nurse told me that Ben had a stab wound to his stomach, two to his lungs and one in his chest that had punctured his heart.
My parents got to the hospital at 4.30am, by which time my boyfriend Ray had also arrived. Georgia, Ben's best friend and mortal enemy rolled into one, looked heartbroken.
The surgeon came in to see us. He said Ben had lost 30 pints of blood - the average young boy's body holds seven pints. After thanking him for his efforts, someone in our group asked the surgeon about Ben's chances of survival. 'Fifty-fifty,' he replied.
A nurse then took my parents to Ben's bedside but they returned to our waiting room just five minutes later - his condition had begun to deteriorate. Ten minutes later, the doctors came in and uttered the words that will haunt us forever: 'We're really sorry but we think he is going to die. You'd better come.'
Everyone in that room screamed. Half of us sank to the floor, our legs unable to hold the grief - the other half started lashing out, kicking walls and tables in fury. Mum and Dad were rushed in to see Ben and the rest of us descended into silence.
After ten minutes, the nurse came to the waiting room and by the look on her face we all knew what had happened. 'Is he gone?' I asked.
'Yes, I'm sorry,' she replied. The nurse led us, Ben's brother and sisters, to a cubicle to see his body. Nothing could have prepared me for the change death brings to a person, even within five minutes. Ben was gone and in his place was a cold, hard, yellow shell with an expression on his face that suggested anger, upset and pain.
Mum rubbed his feet and hands to warm them up, I blew on his freckled nose and everybody else stroked and kissed him, trying to absorb as much Ben as they could.
You would think that touching a dead body would be repulsive, but it's not when it's one of your own. If I could, I would have taken his body home and hugged it every second I could - rather that than nothing at all.
When we arrived home from hospital later that Sunday, I wandered around the house looking for Ben, but the living room was empty, with only a Benshaped dent in the cushions to remind me.
My sisters and I went to his room to soak up whatever he had left there. The smell of his aftershave was heavy in the air.
Jade put on his clothes. Georgia buried her head in his pillow and cried herself to sleep, unable to understand why her big brother was gone. And I chose a sock. That stinky, sticky sock was the strongest thing smelling of Ben I could find. I wore it like a glove puppet, rubbing it like a charm, wishing it would bring him back.
If I woke in the night and couldn't find it, I cried until it was back on my hand. I probably cried more for that stupid sock in those first few days than I did for its owner.
The police told us what little they knew at that point. Ben, who had just finished sitting his GCSEs, had gone to a pub called Shillibeers in Islington that night with friends. A fight had erupted inside and then spilled out on to the street. My brother may have been among the people who went outside to see what was going on.
After ten minutes, the nurse came to the waiting room and by the look on her face we all knew what had happened. 'Is he gone?' I asked.
'Yes, I'm sorry,' she replied. The nurse led us, Ben's brother and sisters, to a cubicle to see his body. Nothing could have prepared me for the change death brings to a person, even within five minutes. Ben was gone and in his place was a cold, hard, yellow shell with an expression on his face that suggested anger, upset and pain.
Mum rubbed his feet and hands to warm them up, I blew on his freckled nose and everybody else stroked and kissed him, trying to absorb as much Ben as they could.
You would think that touching a dead body would be repulsive, but it's not when it's one of your own. If I could, I would have taken his body home and hugged it every second I could - rather that than nothing at all.
When we arrived home from hospital later that Sunday, I wandered around the house looking for Ben, but the living room was empty, with only a Benshaped dent in the cushions to remind me.
My sisters and I went to his room to soak up whatever he had left there. The smell of his aftershave was heavy in the air.
Jade put on his clothes. Georgia buried her head in his pillow and cried herself to sleep, unable to understand why her big brother was gone. And I chose a sock. That stinky, sticky sock was the strongest thing smelling of Ben I could find. I wore it like a glove puppet, rubbing it like a charm, wishing it would bring him back.
If I woke in the night and couldn't find it, I cried until it was back on my hand. I probably cried more for that stupid sock in those first few days than I did for its owner.
The police told us what little they knew at that point. Ben, who had just finished sitting his GCSEs, had gone to a pub called Shillibeers in Islington that night with friends. A fight had erupted inside and then spilled out on to the street. My brother may have been among the people who went outside to see what was going on.
As it was near the end of the night, the bouncers refused to let anyone back in. Now locked out of the pub, my brother began to make his way home, walking up the road with a few other boys. One of them looked back and realised they were being chased. Ben and his group began to run along a long road and around a corner. At some point, my brother stopped running. For some unknown reason, he crossed over to the other side of the road. Whoever was chasing Ben and the others saw my brother as the easier target. They caught him behind a van and stabbed him, leaving him on the pavement to die.
It's a miracle Ben's heart did not stop on that cold pavement --somehow he found the strength to stand up and walk around the corner. One of Ben's friends was one of the first to find him. Ben was heard to say: 'I'm cold... I can't breathe.'
By the next day, police had arrested two of the boys they suspected of being the killers, while a third youth handed himself in later.
Word about Ben's death spread rapidly and one of his female friends quickly organised a march. Almost everybody there was wearing a white T-shirt to signal peace - some of the shirts even featured a picture of Ben's face and some had messages of love. Marchers also held aloft a gigantic banner which simply said: 'Why Ben?'
If I thought that one march was going to be the end of it, I was wrong. That was only the start of a campaign to bring an end to Britain's knifecrime culture that grew so big it succeeded in changing lives and forcing the Government to review sentencing guidelines for murders committed with knives.
We weren't able to bury Ben until almost three weeks after he had died because the defence lawyers kept asking for more tests to be done on him, including having the skin from his hands peeled off to look for scientific clues that might help their case.
We were finally allowed to bury Ben on July 18, the day before my 25th birthday. We chose St John's Church in Duncan Terrace, Islington, because it held 1,000 people, but even that wasn't large enough to accommodate all those wishing to pay their respects to Ben. Those who couldn't fit inside the church lined the streets outside.
It's a miracle Ben's heart did not stop on that cold pavement --somehow he found the strength to stand up and walk around the corner. One of Ben's friends was one of the first to find him. Ben was heard to say: 'I'm cold... I can't breathe.'
By the next day, police had arrested two of the boys they suspected of being the killers, while a third youth handed himself in later.
Word about Ben's death spread rapidly and one of his female friends quickly organised a march. Almost everybody there was wearing a white T-shirt to signal peace - some of the shirts even featured a picture of Ben's face and some had messages of love. Marchers also held aloft a gigantic banner which simply said: 'Why Ben?'
If I thought that one march was going to be the end of it, I was wrong. That was only the start of a campaign to bring an end to Britain's knifecrime culture that grew so big it succeeded in changing lives and forcing the Government to review sentencing guidelines for murders committed with knives.
We weren't able to bury Ben until almost three weeks after he had died because the defence lawyers kept asking for more tests to be done on him, including having the skin from his hands peeled off to look for scientific clues that might help their case.
We were finally allowed to bury Ben on July 18, the day before my 25th birthday. We chose St John's Church in Duncan Terrace, Islington, because it held 1,000 people, but even that wasn't large enough to accommodate all those wishing to pay their respects to Ben. Those who couldn't fit inside the church lined the streets outside.
As the service ended and the coffin was lifted to be taken out of the church, we played our final song for him. We had chosen Calvin Harris's I Get All the Girls - one of Ben's favourites, despite him never getting all the girls. The church erupted when the music began to play --people were laughing, crying and dancing in the aisles.
The sight of my brother's coffin being lowered into the ground will always haunt me. All I wanted to do was jump down into the grave and stay with him - anything to stop him being alone in the cold and dark.
Amid the grief of those first few months, there were occasionally some pleasant surprises. Ben's headmaster turned up with my brother's GCSE results - A-stars in art and English, and As and Bs in every other subject. Ben had been promised £100 for every A-star. I know how he would have jumped up that morning, impatient to claim his prize. He would have been smiling with excitement while at the same time trying to act cool.
My initial solution to coping with grief was simply to get drunk and cry myself to sleep, then start all over again the next day. Three months after Ben's death, however, I began to worry I was starting to forget him, feeling guilty because I was crying less. The first time I really laughed I hated myself. The first time I enjoyed eating something I almost vomited it back up. The first time I concentrated on a TV programme without thinking of Ben, I wanted to die.
I was seriously going to do it. It was just a question of finding the right time and the right way so that my family wouldn't suffer. I knew they would be angry with me but once everything had calmed down and they realised one of us was with Ben, they would feel better.
I stopped wearing my seatbelt while in a car, I drove recklessly, I walked down dark roads late at night praying to be attacked - I was tempting fate as much as possible, but it really didn't matter. If God didn't help me, I knew I would do it myself.
Then one day I was out with Georgia, trying to cheer her up. Something stupid I said made her smile and then laugh, shocking me into reality. I couldn't leave her, too.
I was also amazed at Mum's strength. She dealt with her bad days by going off to have a 'nap', which was really a little cry, before coming back downstairs with her 'Mum face' on. But she couldn't face returning to her job as a secretary at a school, where there were children the same age as Ben. It also went deeper than that - she practically became agoraphobic.
Dad didn't work either. As a taxi driver, he occasionally had to deal with rowdy passengers. He was angry enough - he didn't need a confrontation to set him off.
Mum eventually persuaded the council to move us to a new house. My parents' bedroom was opposite Ben's and every morning they had to wake up and look into their son's empty room.
The day came when we each had to take something from Ben's room to remember him by. The rest of his belongings were to be put in boxes and stored.
I started in his wardrobe, where his clothes still smelled of him even five months on. I chose my favourite jumpers - one that he wore at Christmas and the one he was wearing the last time I saw him, the last time I hugged him.
Finally, as I went to leave, I looked up at his shelf. I debated whether to take some aftershave to remind me of his smell but there was little left in the bottle - hardly surprising given the amount he used to splash on to impress the girls.
The sight of my brother's coffin being lowered into the ground will always haunt me. All I wanted to do was jump down into the grave and stay with him - anything to stop him being alone in the cold and dark.
Amid the grief of those first few months, there were occasionally some pleasant surprises. Ben's headmaster turned up with my brother's GCSE results - A-stars in art and English, and As and Bs in every other subject. Ben had been promised £100 for every A-star. I know how he would have jumped up that morning, impatient to claim his prize. He would have been smiling with excitement while at the same time trying to act cool.
My initial solution to coping with grief was simply to get drunk and cry myself to sleep, then start all over again the next day. Three months after Ben's death, however, I began to worry I was starting to forget him, feeling guilty because I was crying less. The first time I really laughed I hated myself. The first time I enjoyed eating something I almost vomited it back up. The first time I concentrated on a TV programme without thinking of Ben, I wanted to die.
I was seriously going to do it. It was just a question of finding the right time and the right way so that my family wouldn't suffer. I knew they would be angry with me but once everything had calmed down and they realised one of us was with Ben, they would feel better.
I stopped wearing my seatbelt while in a car, I drove recklessly, I walked down dark roads late at night praying to be attacked - I was tempting fate as much as possible, but it really didn't matter. If God didn't help me, I knew I would do it myself.
Then one day I was out with Georgia, trying to cheer her up. Something stupid I said made her smile and then laugh, shocking me into reality. I couldn't leave her, too.
I was also amazed at Mum's strength. She dealt with her bad days by going off to have a 'nap', which was really a little cry, before coming back downstairs with her 'Mum face' on. But she couldn't face returning to her job as a secretary at a school, where there were children the same age as Ben. It also went deeper than that - she practically became agoraphobic.
Dad didn't work either. As a taxi driver, he occasionally had to deal with rowdy passengers. He was angry enough - he didn't need a confrontation to set him off.
Mum eventually persuaded the council to move us to a new house. My parents' bedroom was opposite Ben's and every morning they had to wake up and look into their son's empty room.
The day came when we each had to take something from Ben's room to remember him by. The rest of his belongings were to be put in boxes and stored.
I started in his wardrobe, where his clothes still smelled of him even five months on. I chose my favourite jumpers - one that he wore at Christmas and the one he was wearing the last time I saw him, the last time I hugged him.
Finally, as I went to leave, I looked up at his shelf. I debated whether to take some aftershave to remind me of his smell but there was little left in the bottle - hardly surprising given the amount he used to splash on to impress the girls.
At the back of the shelf, I spied Ben's toothbrush and took it down, amazed that I nearly walked away without this treasure. I know he will be cracking up, wondering why I would want his old toothbrush.
Mum and Dad threw themselves into painting my flat as well as their own new house, getting everything ready for our first Christmas without Ben.
We tried our hardest that Christmas Day but instead of jumping up at 7am as usual, we lay in bed crying. There was no rush to open our presents, no excitement. We toasted Ben at the dinner table, then went our separate ways, unable to put on brave faces.
The months leading up to the Old Bailey trial on April 27 this year were some of the hardest I have experienced. I was depressed and it didn't help that I had nothing to do, despite auditioning for various parts. I became selfish and angry, taking everything out on Ray, who had moved into the flat with me. Mum and Dad were beginning to fall apart and my sisters became withdrawn.
Then one day I finally snapped while Ray and I were having an argument. I remember kicking the furniture and being unable to speak. Apparently, I went into the kitchen and picked up a knife and tried to lock myself in the bathroom with it.
I'm not sure what I was going to do but Ray took it off me and calmed me down. I knew something had to change. I couldn't keep hurting people. I had to fix myself up to face the trial.
My family had previously been shown around the Old Bailey to get us ready for the coming weeks. We also met lawyers representing us and Ben. But nothing really prepared us for that first day. As we battled through the crowds of reporters at the court entrance, I realised the trial was going to be huge.
Each day I came out of the courtroom with my head pounding. Listening to the evidence from eyewitnesses and forensics experts, it seemed to be an open and shut case. But the icing on the cake was the covert recordings police had made of the defendants as they travelled to court and ID parades in a prison van.
Their words were vile but invaluable. Not only did they speak about how they had committed the murder, they discussed getting rid of knives, made up alibis, planned to 'sort out' witnesses and joked as if the whole situation meant nothing to them.
It was sickening to hear them describe in their street slang how they had killed Ben, saying it was a 'quick ting, go down the road, boom boom, ghost, back up'. 'Ghost', as we would discover, meant 'gone' or 'dead' - so the culprits knew instantly what they had done that night. They had intended to kill someone all along.
Some members of the defendants' families made our ordeal a hundred times more difficult. I never expected help from them, but I wasn't prepared for the intimidation, violence and pure nastiness of certain relatives.
To physically attack my friends and family, to spit on them and call them 'scum' and other disgusting names, to sing 'who let the dogs out' as we walked by, to have the audacity to tell my dad to 'walk away and have respect' - I could never understand any of it. Their behaviour was despicable. Yet every time we reported them to the court security staff and our police liaison officer, we were told that CCTV footage showed nothing.
Events came to a head the day that one person apparently said about my brother: 'So what? He's dead anyway.' These words were said to one of Ben's best friends and when he lost his temper and began shouting, a male relation of one of the defendants grabbed him by the throat and threw him against a wall. Once again we complained, but this intimidating thug was back at court the next day.
As if to add insult to injury, my sister Jade was warned she wouldn't be allowed in court if she was caught looking at the men who had killed her brother. Yet their families could physically and verbally attack us with no consequences. It seemed wrong. It was all about giving the defendants a fair trial - but when would anyone recognise the injustice done to us?
Certain things stick in my mind from those seven weeks of the trial. Hearing witnesses talk about Ben's wounds. Listening to a description of the way his blood splattered on the road. Discovering Alleyne had 72 specks of Ben's blood on his jeans.
The court was told that Braithwaite, 20, was involved in the original fight at Shillibeers that night and had been chased away. Unable to handle being 'disrespected', he had called Alleyne, who arrived with Kika just as Ben and his friends were looking for a cab. The defendants had shouted that someone 'was going to die' that night.
A witness testified that my brother said: 'Why are you coming to me? I haven't done anything wrong,' before he was kicked in the stomach, punched and stabbed 11 times.
The jury spent two days deliberating their verdicts - for most of that time we sat outside a cafe near the court. Then on June 11, Mum got a call to say we should make our way back to court immediately because verdicts had been reached.
The court was packed yet you could have heard a pin drop as the foreman of the jury, dressed in his best suit, stood up. In the second it took him to reveal the verdict on Braithwaite, I nearly passed out in fear. There were cries of 'Yes!' and then cheers from the public gallery as he said: 'Guilty.' Alleyne, 18, and Kika, 19, were also convicted.
Sentencing was adjourned until the next day but we had been warned that the minimum tariff for murder with a knife was 15 years and it was unlikely the defendants would get more than 18. I was hoping for 25 years or more.
At court before the sentencing, Mum had been brave enough to read out an impact statement describing the pain of losing her son. 'The people who murdered him knew nothing about our Ben, not a hair on his head, a bone in his body, not anything about our wonderful son,' she said.
'They had never met him before or spoken to him - they just cruelly took his life away with knives for no apparent reason. We had brought Ben up to always walk away from trouble. This sadly cost him his life.'
The judge then ordered the defendants to serve a minimum of 19 years before they become eligible for parole. As the trio were led from the dock to begin their sentence, the public gallery broke into applause. The defendants sneered and made gun gestures with their hands, while their families shouted abuse and spat.
One aspect of the law angered us. The tariff for murder with a knife starts at 15 years, but if you use a gun it starts at 30 - is there much difference between these two deadly weapons?
Ben is dead. He is never coming home. My parents have lost their son. My siblings and I have lost our cherished brother. Ben has lost his future.continues here
Mum and Dad threw themselves into painting my flat as well as their own new house, getting everything ready for our first Christmas without Ben.
We tried our hardest that Christmas Day but instead of jumping up at 7am as usual, we lay in bed crying. There was no rush to open our presents, no excitement. We toasted Ben at the dinner table, then went our separate ways, unable to put on brave faces.
The months leading up to the Old Bailey trial on April 27 this year were some of the hardest I have experienced. I was depressed and it didn't help that I had nothing to do, despite auditioning for various parts. I became selfish and angry, taking everything out on Ray, who had moved into the flat with me. Mum and Dad were beginning to fall apart and my sisters became withdrawn.
Then one day I finally snapped while Ray and I were having an argument. I remember kicking the furniture and being unable to speak. Apparently, I went into the kitchen and picked up a knife and tried to lock myself in the bathroom with it.
I'm not sure what I was going to do but Ray took it off me and calmed me down. I knew something had to change. I couldn't keep hurting people. I had to fix myself up to face the trial.
My family had previously been shown around the Old Bailey to get us ready for the coming weeks. We also met lawyers representing us and Ben. But nothing really prepared us for that first day. As we battled through the crowds of reporters at the court entrance, I realised the trial was going to be huge.
Each day I came out of the courtroom with my head pounding. Listening to the evidence from eyewitnesses and forensics experts, it seemed to be an open and shut case. But the icing on the cake was the covert recordings police had made of the defendants as they travelled to court and ID parades in a prison van.
Their words were vile but invaluable. Not only did they speak about how they had committed the murder, they discussed getting rid of knives, made up alibis, planned to 'sort out' witnesses and joked as if the whole situation meant nothing to them.
It was sickening to hear them describe in their street slang how they had killed Ben, saying it was a 'quick ting, go down the road, boom boom, ghost, back up'. 'Ghost', as we would discover, meant 'gone' or 'dead' - so the culprits knew instantly what they had done that night. They had intended to kill someone all along.
Some members of the defendants' families made our ordeal a hundred times more difficult. I never expected help from them, but I wasn't prepared for the intimidation, violence and pure nastiness of certain relatives.
To physically attack my friends and family, to spit on them and call them 'scum' and other disgusting names, to sing 'who let the dogs out' as we walked by, to have the audacity to tell my dad to 'walk away and have respect' - I could never understand any of it. Their behaviour was despicable. Yet every time we reported them to the court security staff and our police liaison officer, we were told that CCTV footage showed nothing.
Events came to a head the day that one person apparently said about my brother: 'So what? He's dead anyway.' These words were said to one of Ben's best friends and when he lost his temper and began shouting, a male relation of one of the defendants grabbed him by the throat and threw him against a wall. Once again we complained, but this intimidating thug was back at court the next day.
As if to add insult to injury, my sister Jade was warned she wouldn't be allowed in court if she was caught looking at the men who had killed her brother. Yet their families could physically and verbally attack us with no consequences. It seemed wrong. It was all about giving the defendants a fair trial - but when would anyone recognise the injustice done to us?
Certain things stick in my mind from those seven weeks of the trial. Hearing witnesses talk about Ben's wounds. Listening to a description of the way his blood splattered on the road. Discovering Alleyne had 72 specks of Ben's blood on his jeans.
The court was told that Braithwaite, 20, was involved in the original fight at Shillibeers that night and had been chased away. Unable to handle being 'disrespected', he had called Alleyne, who arrived with Kika just as Ben and his friends were looking for a cab. The defendants had shouted that someone 'was going to die' that night.
A witness testified that my brother said: 'Why are you coming to me? I haven't done anything wrong,' before he was kicked in the stomach, punched and stabbed 11 times.
The jury spent two days deliberating their verdicts - for most of that time we sat outside a cafe near the court. Then on June 11, Mum got a call to say we should make our way back to court immediately because verdicts had been reached.
The court was packed yet you could have heard a pin drop as the foreman of the jury, dressed in his best suit, stood up. In the second it took him to reveal the verdict on Braithwaite, I nearly passed out in fear. There were cries of 'Yes!' and then cheers from the public gallery as he said: 'Guilty.' Alleyne, 18, and Kika, 19, were also convicted.
Sentencing was adjourned until the next day but we had been warned that the minimum tariff for murder with a knife was 15 years and it was unlikely the defendants would get more than 18. I was hoping for 25 years or more.
At court before the sentencing, Mum had been brave enough to read out an impact statement describing the pain of losing her son. 'The people who murdered him knew nothing about our Ben, not a hair on his head, a bone in his body, not anything about our wonderful son,' she said.
'They had never met him before or spoken to him - they just cruelly took his life away with knives for no apparent reason. We had brought Ben up to always walk away from trouble. This sadly cost him his life.'
The judge then ordered the defendants to serve a minimum of 19 years before they become eligible for parole. As the trio were led from the dock to begin their sentence, the public gallery broke into applause. The defendants sneered and made gun gestures with their hands, while their families shouted abuse and spat.
One aspect of the law angered us. The tariff for murder with a knife starts at 15 years, but if you use a gun it starts at 30 - is there much difference between these two deadly weapons?
Ben is dead. He is never coming home. My parents have lost their son. My siblings and I have lost our cherished brother. Ben has lost his future.continues here
How sad, how sad it is, that a sister must feel such pain, must forever grieve for her brother, no words of comfort can stem such pain, can hold back the flood of “what ifs”, nothing can replace the uniqueness of another ,we are all, though they tell us different. Yet Ms Kinsella has provided a service, unknowingly perhaps, but a service, to all those other sisters, all those other siblings, the fathers, the mothers and the families and friends. You see Ms Kinsella had renown to call upon, recognition to harness, we see it here as she candidly gives the other side of the coin, writes of the true face of our injustice system, a system whereby the wholly evil receive parity and the victim nothing.
How dare such people spit at the bereaved ,how dare they attack them, disparage them and give them further torment, Ms Kinsella, under a nationalist system justice would be served and you and your family, would be treated with the respect you deserve, not forced to endure the humiliating incidences you describe in your article. Is it not bad enough to lose someone you love, bad enough to lay night after night, coiled up tight with longing, to feel evil for laughing, evil for enjoying, to watch as your family teeter unsteadily through such terrible times, only for evil to attack you further.
You state emphatically that the courts did nothing, that these yobs and unwanted filth were permitted free-reign, whilst you and yours suffered further, what country is this now, when those beside themselves with loss must endure further, when officials permit, sanction and beget malevolence. Further Ms kinsella, the murderers of your dear brother should not be here, should not be here to kill upon our streets, or are they ours now, for evil swaggers along them, incongruous brown eyes regard their prey and we are left to them now.
Our leaders support their importation, support the evil that causes such pain, they follow a truly quite appalling agenda, wrap it up as humane and set it lose amongst the common people and should any resist, as I, then it is we that are evil, we that must be brought down, we that face the full force of the law, whilst the monsters prowl our streets, striking to fancy. How many sisters mourning out there, how many families, how much blood split in the name of an experiment, you see that is quite what it is, an experiment, a social-engineering lesson for the elites, can the common people ,the body-politic live amongst the other, can distinct cultures and peoples co-exist in peace.
Of course the elites do not face this, the elites, in their gated communities do not suffer injuriously, merely the common folk, the people, yet history tells us that distinct peoples can never live together that, difference always cause conflict, race is thee greatest difference yet it is not all, non-white and non-white do not live in peace, therefore to import their conflicts to this once green and pleasant land is akin to murder, murder vast, they, the government, of present and past have blood on their hands.
Yet who listens to a nationalist, who ever pays heed, today they bemoan our countries fate, yet few lift hand to against it, all wait for something ,all expect the comet and whilst waiting blood flows, the rich milk us and brown becomes this countries colour. There are good and bad in all races, yet non-whites show a remarkable predisposition for savagery, their own history gives the truth to this, yet our leaders pile them in, they know, they actually know, that these people come to steal our resources, that many hold an anti-white anti-western outlook and many are predisposed to barbarity, yet they do nothing, traitors all.
I am so sorry Ms Kinsella, so very sorry, if only they had listened to us, if only they had believed us, instead of attacking us as haters, your brother may very well walk among the living, your family never having known the humiliation of attacks by families of murderers. Yet they never listen Ms Kinsella, never even gave it thought, they walked completely over the wishes of the people and today we see the result, London isn’t ours anymore and many other cities follow suit, each year our numbers fall and still they keep open the gates, so many murders Ms Kinsella, so many rapes, so many attacks, so much pain, rivers of blood do flow Ms Kinsella, they just rarely remark about it.
Of course non-whites are attacked, in most case by those of same race and their families pain is the same, yet in our case, the case of whites, it is all the more tragic because had they not been here many would live, most knife crime is carried out by blacks, there is no disputing this, no argument, none cane give statistics showing this not to be the case. So each and every white child, each life snuffed out, each baby taken from a parent, each brother taken from a sister, each and all of the white victims would, should the poisonous, treacherous vermin that passes for our leaders, have listened been alive today.
Of course there are some that have been slain by a white hand but in the main it is non-white, perhaps it is time to truly realise the enormous toll placed upon this land and people or will you see more of us dead, more of us suffer in the name of your dammed experiment. Ms Kinsella you were able to tell your story to the people and for that we thank you, AAWR and indeed nationalists everywhere wish you well, we hope now that this is the end, that you and yours do not suffer more. Yet there are families Ms Kinsella that have no voice, that suffer as your own, that endure, nationalists of many parties strive to bring their story to the masses, to combat the, shall we say, reticence of the media in reporting them, so many of us collate the information, a truly depressing task and strive to let the people see, here at AAWR we have the “Incidence Map Project”, which not only presents the information textually but visually.
It is not comprehensive, in fact far from it, updating it crushes ones spirit and lowers ones mood for weeks after, yet in one form or another it is there and it tells part of the story, at one time a number of us worked upon it, perhaps we will again. I would hope that nationalists and those with an interest link to it, in order that the people out there can really see the damage immigration has wrought, thank you.
How dare such people spit at the bereaved ,how dare they attack them, disparage them and give them further torment, Ms Kinsella, under a nationalist system justice would be served and you and your family, would be treated with the respect you deserve, not forced to endure the humiliating incidences you describe in your article. Is it not bad enough to lose someone you love, bad enough to lay night after night, coiled up tight with longing, to feel evil for laughing, evil for enjoying, to watch as your family teeter unsteadily through such terrible times, only for evil to attack you further.
You state emphatically that the courts did nothing, that these yobs and unwanted filth were permitted free-reign, whilst you and yours suffered further, what country is this now, when those beside themselves with loss must endure further, when officials permit, sanction and beget malevolence. Further Ms kinsella, the murderers of your dear brother should not be here, should not be here to kill upon our streets, or are they ours now, for evil swaggers along them, incongruous brown eyes regard their prey and we are left to them now.
Our leaders support their importation, support the evil that causes such pain, they follow a truly quite appalling agenda, wrap it up as humane and set it lose amongst the common people and should any resist, as I, then it is we that are evil, we that must be brought down, we that face the full force of the law, whilst the monsters prowl our streets, striking to fancy. How many sisters mourning out there, how many families, how much blood split in the name of an experiment, you see that is quite what it is, an experiment, a social-engineering lesson for the elites, can the common people ,the body-politic live amongst the other, can distinct cultures and peoples co-exist in peace.
Of course the elites do not face this, the elites, in their gated communities do not suffer injuriously, merely the common folk, the people, yet history tells us that distinct peoples can never live together that, difference always cause conflict, race is thee greatest difference yet it is not all, non-white and non-white do not live in peace, therefore to import their conflicts to this once green and pleasant land is akin to murder, murder vast, they, the government, of present and past have blood on their hands.
Yet who listens to a nationalist, who ever pays heed, today they bemoan our countries fate, yet few lift hand to against it, all wait for something ,all expect the comet and whilst waiting blood flows, the rich milk us and brown becomes this countries colour. There are good and bad in all races, yet non-whites show a remarkable predisposition for savagery, their own history gives the truth to this, yet our leaders pile them in, they know, they actually know, that these people come to steal our resources, that many hold an anti-white anti-western outlook and many are predisposed to barbarity, yet they do nothing, traitors all.
I am so sorry Ms Kinsella, so very sorry, if only they had listened to us, if only they had believed us, instead of attacking us as haters, your brother may very well walk among the living, your family never having known the humiliation of attacks by families of murderers. Yet they never listen Ms Kinsella, never even gave it thought, they walked completely over the wishes of the people and today we see the result, London isn’t ours anymore and many other cities follow suit, each year our numbers fall and still they keep open the gates, so many murders Ms Kinsella, so many rapes, so many attacks, so much pain, rivers of blood do flow Ms Kinsella, they just rarely remark about it.
Of course non-whites are attacked, in most case by those of same race and their families pain is the same, yet in our case, the case of whites, it is all the more tragic because had they not been here many would live, most knife crime is carried out by blacks, there is no disputing this, no argument, none cane give statistics showing this not to be the case. So each and every white child, each life snuffed out, each baby taken from a parent, each brother taken from a sister, each and all of the white victims would, should the poisonous, treacherous vermin that passes for our leaders, have listened been alive today.
Of course there are some that have been slain by a white hand but in the main it is non-white, perhaps it is time to truly realise the enormous toll placed upon this land and people or will you see more of us dead, more of us suffer in the name of your dammed experiment. Ms Kinsella you were able to tell your story to the people and for that we thank you, AAWR and indeed nationalists everywhere wish you well, we hope now that this is the end, that you and yours do not suffer more. Yet there are families Ms Kinsella that have no voice, that suffer as your own, that endure, nationalists of many parties strive to bring their story to the masses, to combat the, shall we say, reticence of the media in reporting them, so many of us collate the information, a truly depressing task and strive to let the people see, here at AAWR we have the “Incidence Map Project”, which not only presents the information textually but visually.
It is not comprehensive, in fact far from it, updating it crushes ones spirit and lowers ones mood for weeks after, yet in one form or another it is there and it tells part of the story, at one time a number of us worked upon it, perhaps we will again. I would hope that nationalists and those with an interest link to it, in order that the people out there can really see the damage immigration has wrought, thank you.
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