The Julian case

To whoever is reading this, I’ve decided there is no point in writing a report on my findings on the Julian case, it’s not a police matter.However, I have the urge to recollect my thoughts and write them down. This case haunted me for years and I finally have enough pieces of information to share my eerie experience.

I’m sceptical of myself for believing in ghosts.

How can you believe in something that doesn’t exist?

But another dilemma is now haunting me: does something need to exist to be real?

To be scary?

To be dangerous?

I ask you to put your scepticism aside and grant me the benefit of the doubt now that you’ll get to know Julian, a young adult in his early twenties, pressing his forehead against the cold window of a Southern railway train, about to reach its final destination, at London Bridge.

Thin droplets of a cold winter rain are helpless in stopping the train driving Julian towards his own fatal destiny.

“Where will I bring Lucy for our first date?” - his mind is fixating on thinking, while he is endlessly scrolling his Instagram feed, loudly playing obnoxious pieces of music throughout the phone’s loudspeaker.

The poor lad has a simple job and a definite lack of sophistication, but is not an inconsiderate person. He doesn’t care about the loud noise produced by his phone because he is the only soul on the carriage that night.

It’s the last train, on a rainy Monday night, emerging from the depths of south London, fluttering in the northerly wind. 

Lazily but steadily powering forward, lulling Julian's hand while he keeps scrolling, while he keeps thinking.

“Where will I bring Lucy for our first date?” - a movie in Leicester Square? Cocktails in Soho? Suggested the ads on his phone.

Frustration is growing in Julian's mind, pressured to come up with a romantic night to impress his girl and the reality of a pay that barely covers the rent of a single bed in an unkept townhouse with walls made of mould and the occasional brick.

The train comes to a sudden halt.

Julian snaps out of his obsessions when a cracking voice fills the empty carriage: “We are being held on a red signal, but we should move shortly and reach our final station at London Bridge, apologies for the delay”

It’s the 13th of November 2023, 23:55.

He should have arrived at the station five minutes ago, just in time for his shift.

He cleans the London underground, scraping dust and dirt in dimly lit tunnels, where his dark soul goes unnoticed. It’s far from a glamorous job, but it’s a job and it’s the first time he's been sober for a full year, keeping his head down, working hard, meeting Lucy.

Why can’t trains simply be on time on a Monday night?

“For what I pay to commute I should get a free dinner for two at the Shard!” - Julian thought.

He closes his eyes and sees Lucy, they are  in a fancy top floor restaurant overlooking the whole city. She is smiling at him across the table. He can feel a buzz in his hands as fireworks pop to celebrate the new year but that’s actually his phone claiming him back to reality. He opens his eyes to glance at the display.

Cold sweat in his palms, sharp pain in his stomach and surging pressure in his chest. He is getting smaller and smaller and the ground disappears under his feet.

It’s a message from John, his supervisor: “JJ, you were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago!!! I’m fed up with your excuses for being late. Don’t bother showing up, you’ll get your P45 by the end of the week, good riddance!”

Julian's hand is shaking, left and right as the train resumes its march toward London Bridge, the final destination.

He sinks into a bleak mood, like a kitchen sponge dropped in an oily pan, sucking up all the filth. He suppresses the urge to punch his reflection staring back from the dark window and tries to pour all his rage into a reply to John. He is too weak and ashamed to send even one text as he stops typing yet another draft.

In his head Lucy is crying “You’re a loser” she yells.

He arrives at London Bridge station, platform fourteen. 

The train’s doors slide wide open allowing humid winter air to rush inside the carriage. Julian's body warmth quickly dissipates from the now vacant seat. He gravitates on the pavement, feeling twice as heavy the moment his foot hits the pavement, surprised by his ability to carry his own weight while walking alongside the yellow line.

A whisper now: “You’re a loser, Julian”

A chill went down his spine as he heard his father's voice with eerie clarity - he could have sworn his dad was standing right there beside him, if not for the missing stench of alcohol.

“You are a FUCKING loser, Julian Jackson” he whispers again.

Julian pretended not to hear Martin Jackson, a convicted criminal, chronic alcoholic, and abusive father, according to the records sitting on my desk. If only I had known about Julian's past, perhaps I could have saved his life that night.

“Firstly, he is not here” Julian may have reasoned with himself, “secondly he is fucking dead…”

“Yes I’m dead son, exactly a year ago, son!” Martin whispers.

Julian descends the escalator, feeling as though he is sinking into hell. Demons drive his corpse towards the station’s exit which will offer no escape, no redemption.

He mindlessly taps his phone to open the gates when the date on the screen seized his attention: 14th November 2023, 00:12

Julian's legs are weak, he needs to cry, but his sadness is too deep to erupt to the surface instead sinking even deeper in his guts. His father took his own life in prison on November 14th, 2022. 

Since then, Julian started to have a life, since Martin was gone, Julian was able to live, lifted by the weight of his father's existence.

Before Martin's death, Julian struggled for five years, bouncing among foster homes, abusing drugs and alcohol to numb his guilt. He called the police on his father the night he brutally beat him, knocking out nearly half of his teeth. 

Martin got sentenced to seven years in prison, not for beating his son, no one really cared, but for the stash of Class A drugs the cops uncovered, that was a police matter worth a promotion. 

For five years before taking his own life, Martin had sent letters that Julian couldn't bring himself to open, yet also couldn't find the will to destroy. I read them instead, though it felt wrong granting Martin's voice any power. It was a hard read but I was willing to look at anything that could help me make sense of what I witnessed that fateful night, although reading his words made everything darker.

The gates open but Julian is unable to move and they close shortly after. He grounds in the realisation that since his father was dead he was able to live, what kind of a son he is?

“You’re just a traitor, you little shit” Martin shouts in Julian's head as he feels my hand firmly grabbing his shoulder.

This is the moment when I met Julian for the first time. Blinded by the eagerness to get home I failed to notice the ghost lurching around him and swiftly dismissed him by saying: “All good lad, troubles with the fare?”

I remember the look on Julian's face shifting from terror to bewilderment as he realised it was a bobby standing behind him  instead of his deceased father. Death had never felt closer to Julian than in that chilling moment and I failed to see the depth and darkness of Julian’s green eyes. All I saw was a young lad dressed like a construction worker and ascribed his awkwardness to my uniform, when he finally said:

“It’s my dad's anniversary today…”

“Well go on and celebrate then, keep moving” I impatiently said as I was about to finish my shift on a quiet Monday night.

I wonder if in that moment Julian felt all was lost, celebration indeed he may have thought, all is fucked.

Well past midnight, Julian finds himself unemployed, dismissed, rejected with twenty pound notes in his pocket, remnants from his last weekly pay. A reckless mood for celebration seizes him.

After a short walk he reaches the Old Thameside Inn where one of his mates works the nights. The pub is closed but after a short text exchange Jack sneaks out with a bottle of stolen Gin: “Julian… What's the occasion?” - Jack says as if he really cared. 

“Just take the twenty and fuck off Jack before we get caught…”

Julian is not in a mood for chit-chat, especially with Jack, especially now that he’s betraying himself by strangling the cold neck of a bottle full of poison.

Julian listens to his father's voice getting clearer and clearer in his head while everything else is getting blurrier and blurrier.

“Let’s celebrate my death son, is not too late to love your daddy”

He is sitting on the fence of the London Bridge, his legs dangling in the cold breeze, his face wet from the thin droplet of cold rain.

"You're just a drunk junkie like your dad," Martin shoutes in Julian’s head, when he finally find the energy to yell back at the top of his lungs, "Shut the fuck up and leave me alone!" 

The cold rain pelted down as I hurried across London Bridge toward the bus station, eager to get home. My feet were already soaked from splashing through puddles I half-heartedly tried to avoid. Julian's shouts pierced the patter of the rain, jolting me from my mindless march.

A small group of people started to gather witnessing a drunk young man risking his life, some of the fuckers filming on their phones.

I dispersed the crowd and started talking to the boy while turning the radio back-on to call for help.

I looked at him and noticed his yellow safety boots with steel toes and what looked like builders' tools around his waist, I recognised him!

“If he falls in the river he will certainly drown.” I thought with fear.

“Eih boy! Weren’t you celebrating your father's anniversary tonight, what’s your name?”

Julian turns his head as a northerly breeze picks up speed but I fail to make eye contact with him as my attention is drawn to an older man seemingly appearing out of nowhere in the rain, standing next to him. I see his face, his hateful grin, thin green eyes and pointy chin.

Alerted by this inexplicable appearance I pick up my pace to cross the bridge. Getting closer to Julian my eyes see him shouts: "This copper won't save you this time!" -  but my ears hear the deep voice of the old man next to him as if he has possessed Julian’s body. I start to doubt my sense of reality.

Rain needles my face as I strain to see - was someone really standing next to the boy? If not, where did that voice come from?

I’m closing fast towards Julian, who rises on the bridge's fence unsteadily, balancing in the wind.

“Oy oy… you’re in no trouble” I say, slowing my pace to not upset him any further. I lock my gaze on the boy as if that could hold him from jumping and I raise my hands hugging the fog, my vision, tunnelled by my raised forearms.

Suddenly my left hand hit the windscreen of a double decker bus zipping past. I stopped, but it was too late to avoid its side mirror sticking in my head. Through the windows, flickering like 8mm film frames in slow motion, I see the old man laughing and crying as he shoves Julian off the bridge, glancing back at me with a hateful grin on his face, thin green eyes and a pointy chin.

I run towards the fence, hit it hard with my ribs, cutting my breath short.

I ignore the sharp pain and throw my eyes at the Thames.

All I see is a dark grey myst eating up anything crossing its path. I’m now weirdly aware that no one else is there despite what I thought I saw. 

“Funny, the rain feels warm now as it streams towards my mouth” 

I taste the distinct metallic flavour of blood flowing from my left temple as I faint at the edge of the fence knocking an empty bottle of gin.

“Suicide” - case closed, the inspector said at the time.

“Bullshit” I tell you now that I’m the inspector,  staring at the picture of Martin Jackson taken the day of his arrest.

Hateful grin, thin green eyes and pointy chin.

I've been obsessed for years about the Julian case and collected as many files and evidence as I could, sometimes risking my career asking favours to access evidence I’m not cleared for.

I've been reading the transcripts of Lucy's text messages, phone call records, browsing history, anything I could put my hands on.

Going through the pile of documents on my desk I came across my referral to the psychiatrist. 

There were no other witnesses to corroborate my account of the suspect old man, leading the psychologist to conclude that I must have hallucinated due to my head concussion.

At the time, I accepted this explanation. Even now, I have no other way to rationalise what I experienced that night. 

How could I have seen the face of a stranger I had never laid eyes on before? 

I tried to dismiss it but the image of that twisted old man still haunts me. I cannot explain it, even believe it, yet I can’t deny what I saw.

Did I really see a ghost that night? 

Can a ghost even exist, or is it just darkness clouding our mind? 

What I've come to understand is that keeping haunting shadows locked inside our mind allows them to gain supernatural powers.

What we believe is what we experience, what we experience, is what we believe.

Dear reader, no matter what your belief is, I thank you for giving your inner voice to Julian’s story, hoping I can now put this case to rest, and let him lie in peace.