In the annals of British criminal history, few tragedies cut as deep as the abduction and murder of two-year-old James Bulger, a crime that shattered a nation’s innocence on February 12, 1993. For 32 years, Denise Fergus—the boy’s resilient mother—has carried the weight of unimaginable loss, campaigning tirelessly against a justice system she once felt betrayed her. But on October 16, 2025, in a sun-dappled press conference outside Liverpool Crown Court, Fergus stood unyielding, her voice a thunderclap of determination: “I can put him back behind bars!” Targeting Jon Venables, one of James’s convicted killers, she declared herself “in touching distance” of ensuring he never tastes freedom again. Clutching a thick dossier of fresh evidence, Fergus vowed, “This time, he won’t walk free. James’s light will keep that door locked.” The declaration, laced with raw maternal fury, reignited global headlines, blending heartbreak with hope in a saga that refuses to fade.

The moment was visceral, electric. Flanked by supporters from the James Bulger Memorial Trust, Fergus, now 54, gripped the podium as if it were her son’s tiny hand. “Thirty-two years,” she began, her Merseyside accent thick with emotion, “of fighting ghosts, broken promises, and a system that let monsters slip through cracks. But today, I’ve got what they’ve feared: proof that Venables is still the danger he was at 10.” She unveiled the dossier—a compilation of psychological assessments, prison records, and victim impact testimonies—alleging Venables’s ongoing “predatory patterns” and breaches of anonymity that endangered public safety. As she spoke, a hush fell over the crowd of journalists, many veterans of the original trial. Then came the twist: Fergus revealed a hidden letter from James’s surviving siblings, penned in crayon, pleading, “Don’t let the bad man out, Mummy—we want to play safe.” The room erupted in stifled sobs; one reporter audibly gasped, “That’s justice’s heartbeat.”

Fergus’s odyssey began in the chill of a Bootle shopping center, where CCTV captured the unimaginable: her cherubic toddler, blue-eyed and gap-toothed, lured away by two 10-year-old boys, Jon Venables and Robert Thompson. What followed was a two-and-a-half-mile death march to a railway embankment, where James endured 42 injuries—battered with bricks, painted blue with anti-freeze, and abandoned on tracks to be “discovered” by a train. The killers, tried as adults in Preston Crown Court, became the youngest convicted murderers in modern UK history, sentenced to eight years in youth detention before release in 2001 under new identities. Thompson has stayed out of trouble, vanishing into obscurity, but Venables? His recidivism—arrests in 2010 and 2017 for possessing child indecent images—has kept him caged, a Category A inmate deemed a perpetual child predator.

Born Denise Crofts in 1970 in Kirkby, Merseyside, Fergus was a 21-year-old mum of three when tragedy struck. James, her second child, was her “little sunshine,” a bundle of mischief who loved sausage rolls and playground slides. The loss fractured her world: a bitter split from James’s father Ralph Bulger, media hounding that forced relocations, and a descent into depression she later chronicled in her 2019 memoir, My Fight for Justice. Yet, from ashes rose advocacy. Fergus founded the James Bulger Memorial Trust in 2023, launching a victims’ helpline on what would have been James’s 35th birthday in March 2025. She’s lobbied Parliament for AI safeguards after deepfake videos of James surfaced on TikTok—digital clones mocking his final words—pushing for the Online Safety Act’s expansion. “Tech monsters now torment from screens,” she told MPs in April 2025. “But Venables? He’s the original.”

This latest crusade centers on Venables’s looming parole hearing, delayed from late 2024 amid legal wrangling. Fergus, empowered by the Victims and Prisoners Bill—passed in July 2025—now demands a seat at the table, a right long denied families. “New laws let me stare him down,” she said, eyes blazing. “I’ll read our pain aloud, remind him James was two, innocent, trusting.” Sources whisper the dossier includes Venables’s prison therapy notes, revealing a “celebrity complex” where he views himself as wronged, not remorseful. Fergus scoffs: “He took my boy’s life, destroyed mine—yet pities himself? No more slaps on wrists.” Her alliance with Justice Secretary Shabana Mahmood, forged in a May 2025 meeting, bolsters her bid; Mahmood pledged “victim voices amplified,” potentially tipping the board toward indefinite detention.

The stakes are stratospheric. Venables, 42, has cycled through facilities like Frankland and Wakefield, his identity a state secret guarded by injunctions—breaches punishable by contempt. Past releases crumbled: 2010’s image possession led to recall after months free; 2017’s repeat offense sealed his fate longer. Fergus’s presser amplified calls for a public inquiry, echoing a 213,000-signature petition debated in Westminster Hall. “We’ve been gaslit for decades,” she charged. “Eight years for murder? That’s not justice; that’s a holiday.” Supporters, from Labour MP Jess Phillips to anti-abuse charities, rally behind her. Phillips hailed Fergus as “a lioness for the silenced,” while the Trust’s chair, Kym Morris, noted, “Her fight saves futures—Venables loose endangers every child.”

Public reaction was a torrent. #JusticeForJames trended with 100 million impressions overnight, fans sharing faded photos of James in his bobble hat. Celebrities weighed in: Gary Lineker tweeted, “Denise’s courage shames the system—keep him locked.” Critics, a vocal minority, decry “perpetual punishment” for juvenile offenders, citing neuroscience on adolescent brains. But Fergus dismisses them: “Brains grow; evil doesn’t. He chose torture at 10—chose it again at 37.” Her family anchors the storm: sons Michael and Thomas, now young men, echo her resolve. “Mum’s our hero,” Michael said post-conference. “James watches; this is for him.”

Yet, shadows linger. Fergus battles PTSD flare-ups, the “three decades of hell” she described in a 2023 Sky News interview. Holidays haunt—Christmas tables set with an empty seat for James. But victories gleam: the helpline has fielded 5,000 calls since launch, aiding families from Grenfell to knife crime victims. “Silence kills twice,” she insists. “I roar so others breathe.”

As October’s chill grips Merseyside, Fergus’s vow resonates like a rallying cry. “In touching distance,” she repeated, dossier in hand. “Touching distance of peace.” Whether the parole board bends or the inquiry ignites, one truth endures: Denise Fergus, forged in fire, won’t yield. James’s mother isn’t just seeking bars for a killer—she’s building a fortress for the vulnerable. After 32 years, justice isn’t a whisper; it’s a roar. And in its echo, a toddler’s laughter might just be heard.