Reporting the unreportable

This summer has been memorable for all the wrong reasons. The small seaside town of Southport, where I have found myself living, was plunged into grief when a man stabbed three little girls to death at a school holiday dance party. Then, before the town had even started coming to terms with being at the top of the news agenda, the event sparked violence and rioting, which spread across the country. It was caused by misinformation and racist hatred online – but as with all rioting, attracted many people fired up by anger and looking for someone to blame for what had happened.

Even as a seasoned journalist I have found it hard to comprehend. Until that day, I would have told anyone that Southport was the safest place to leave your children. And to then watch as a riot that I’d have thought serious in Northern Ireland, erupted outside a mosque just streets from my home, while a police helicopter hovered overhead, turned the week into the surreal dream I occasionally have, where I’m back working in a newsroom, but unable to operate any of the equipment.

I did indeed find myself back working in news; I gave seven interviews over two days, reiterating again and again that Southport was a family community-minded place. And even in the midst of the horror, there was evidence of that. The vigil organised just days after the stabbing, saw what looked like the whole town turn out to celebrate the lives of the little girls. And then after the riots, dozens of people and companies helped clean up, so effectively that within hours you’d hardly have known anything had happened. That also helped lessen the grief and anger.

This week, the King has been here to offer support. The families of all of the victims, including the children who saw what happened, will no doubt need help for a long time to come. But for the rest of us, just a few weeks later, thing are settling down. All three of little girls have been buried, and all of the flowers and toys have gone from the site of the event.

For many people, this is the most barbaric and tragic attack on schoolchildren in the UK since Dunblane. But I remember the very first time a school was attacked .

Thirty years, when I was working on the evening newspaper in Middlesbrough in the north-east, when a man carrying a shotgun and knives burst into a classroom at Hall Garth school in Acklam. He lined children up against the wall and lunged at them with a knife. Nikki Conroy was just 12 when she was stabbed to death. Two of her classmates, Emma Winter and Michelle Reeve, were seriously injured.

Nikki’s killer was Stephen Wilkinson. He was a former pupil at the school. In 1995 he was convicted of manslaughter with diminished responsibility and locked up indefinitely in a secure hospital.
It was the first time a school had been attacked and led to the kind of security measures all schools have now. For me, as a 24-year-old reporter, it was also the first time I’d covered such a violent story. After interviewing Nikki’s family, I did something I’ve never done since – I joined the thousands of others from around the world who sent condolence cards.

It was also the first time I’d encountered the national press pack in our town. On one occasion one of them lent me their mobile phone, a huge brick of a thing, so I could phone the office– another first for me. Normally we had to go and find a phone box.
In the tense atmosphere after the attack national reporters were hammering on the door of the house where Stephen Wilkinson was believed to live, and harassing the neighbours who came out to say the family weren’t there.

But while it was a very difficult time for everyone, I remember the coverage of that story being very different.

With no 24-hour television or even radio news, there was a much greater sense of giving space to the victims. Although many of them have spoken about the intrusion of the media, watching the non-stop coverage here in Southport last month made me realise how rolling news creates a pressure cooker environment.

And of course, in 1994, there was no social media. No way for the rumours and misinformation, which were no doubt circulating, to spread across the country in seconds. No way for those with an agenda to highjack the event and use it to create additional violence. Stephen Wilkinson is white and was from Middlesbrough, but he only attacked the girls in that classroom.

One of those who witnessed the attack has since become a journalist. Joanna Morris now works for the BBC. She says the experience of being in that classroom that day made her understand the need for ethical responsible journalism

That day also made me understand the difficult role the media has to play when a small community is overwhelmed by tragedy. I hope that my reporting, when tragedy came to my community, didn’t add to the grief.