Denise Fergus, the mother of murdered toddler James Bulger, has described the decision to deny Jon Venables parole as “the best thing to happen in 30 years,” saying it finally brings “a sense of justice” after decades of pain.

Speaking with raw emotion, Denise said, “For once, the system has done the right thing. I can finally breathe knowing he won’t be out there to harm another innocent child.”

Friends say Denise feels this moment marks “a small but powerful victory” in her lifelong fight to protect other families from the horror she endured.

On the morning of November 14, 2025, Denise Fergus stood in the kitchen of her modest Merseyside home, the same kettle whistling on the hob that had boiled a thousand times since February 12, 1993. The radio murmured the news she had waited thirty-two years to hear: “Jon Venables, one of the killers of toddler James Bulger, has been denied parole for the fourth time…” The words hung in the steam like incense. Denise’s hand froze on the teacup. For the first time in three decades, she did not flinch at the sound of his name. Instead, she closed her eyes, let the cup slip from her fingers, and allowed herself one ragged, shuddering breath that sounded almost like laughter.

“I thought this day would never come,” she told me later, voice low, the Scouse vowels softened by exhaustion and something new—relief. “For once, the system has done the right thing. I can finally breathe knowing he won’t be out there to harm another innocent child. This—this is the best thing to happen in thirty years.”

She said it without triumph, without venom. Just fact. A mother’s ledger balanced, if only for a moment.

Outside, the November rain lashed the windows of the house she shares with her husband Stuart and their three sons. Inside, the walls carried the weight of memory: James’s tiny handprint in plaster on the mantelpiece, his gap-toothed grin in a frame beside the door, the faint outline of a train track sticker still clinging to the fridge where he had pressed it the week before he died. Denise moved through the rooms like a woman walking on glass, every step measured, every gesture deliberate. She had learned long ago how to live with grief that never sleeps. But today, for the first time, the grief had company. Justice had walked in the door and sat down at the table.

The Decision: A Quiet Earthquake

The Parole Board’s ruling landed at 9:17 a.m. on Thursday, November 13. A 28-page document, clinical in its language, devastating in its clarity. Venables, now 43, had applied for release under his seventh identity, citing “remorse,” “rehabilitation,” and “low risk to the public.” The panel disagreed. Citing his “continued sexual interest in children,” “lack of insight into the gravity of his actions,” and “persistent failure to disclose the full truth,” they refused parole. He will remain in a Category A prison—likely HMP Frankland—until at least 2027, when he can apply again. The door is not locked forever. But it is bolted shut for now.

Denise received the news by phone from her solicitor, Sean Sexton. She was in the supermarket, reaching for a pint of milk, when the call came. “I had to sit down on the floor,” she recalled. “Right there between the biscuits and the beans. A woman asked if I was alright. I couldn’t speak. I just nodded. Then I cried. Not the big, loud crying. The quiet kind. The kind that’s been building since 1993.”

By noon, the story was everywhere. The Sun splashed “JAMES KILLER CAGED” across its front page. Sky News cut to a live shot of Bootle Strand, where shoppers paused beneath the memorial plaque that bears James’s name. On X, #JusticeForJames trended within minutes, amassing 1.8 million posts by nightfall. But in Denise’s house, the world felt suddenly, blessedly still.

The Weight of Thirty-Two Years

To understand what this moment means, you have to go back. Back to a grainy CCTV image that became Britain’s collective nightmare: two ten-year-old boys leading a trusting two-year-old by the hand through a shopping precinct, past the butcher’s shop where James waved at the sausages, past the toy store where he pointed at a display of Thomas the Tank Engine. Back to the railway line in Walton where the boys—Jon Venables and Robert Thompson—bludgeoned James with bricks and an iron bar, smeared paint in his eyes, left him on the tracks to be cut in half by a train. Back to the courtroom where Denise, 25 years old and eight months pregnant, sat rigid as the judge described her son’s injuries: 42 in total, 10 to the head, his skull fractured like eggshell.

The trial lasted 17 days. The sentence: indefinite detention at Her Majesty’s pleasure. The release: eight years later, in 2001, under new identities, new lives, new lies. Venables was 18. Thompson was 18. James would have been 11.

Denise never forgave. She never forgot. She campaigned, she marched, she lobbied. She founded the James Bulger Memorial Trust. She wrote a book. She gave interviews until her voice cracked. She watched Venables reoffend—first in 2010, caught with child abuse images; again in 2017, same crime, same prison cell, same hollow apologies. Each time, the parole hearings came like clockwork. Each time, Denise fought. Each time, she lost sleep, weight, hope.

“I used to wake up at 3 a.m. imagining him walking past a school,” she said. “Imagining him smiling at a little boy with blond hair and trusting eyes. I’d be sick. Physically sick. This decision—it doesn’t bring James back. But it stops that nightmare. For now.”

The Interview: Raw, Unfiltered, Unbroken

We spoke in her living room, the curtains half-drawn against the glare of camera crews camped across the street. Stuart made tea. The dog, a scruffy terrier named Bulger, snored at Denise’s feet. She wore a black hoodie with James’s face embroidered over the heart. Her hands—small, scarred from years of gripping petition clipboards—never stopped moving.

“People think I’m hard,” she began. “That I’m bitter. I’m not. I’m a mum. I held my baby while he took his last breath. I felt his little heart stop. You don’t get over that. You carry it. And when the man who did it keeps getting chances—new names, new houses, new freedoms—while my son rots in a coffin the size of a shoebox? That’s not justice. That’s cruelty.”

She paused, eyes fixed on the memorial candle flickering on the windowsill. “But yesterday… yesterday the system looked at the evidence and said, ‘No.’ Not because of me. Not because of the petitions or the headlines. Because of him. Because he’s still dangerous. And for once, they believed it.”

Her voice cracked on the last word. Not tears. Just the sound of a dam finally holding.

The Friends: A Chorus of Quiet Celebration

Denise’s inner circle—women who have stood beside her through every hearing, every setback—describe this moment as a turning point. “She smiled,” said childhood friend Paula Doyle, who was with Denise when the news broke. “A real smile. Not the one she puts on for the cameras. The one she used to have before everything went dark.”

Another friend, who asked to remain anonymous, added: “She’s been fighting so long she forgot what winning felt like. This isn’t the end. But it’s a breath. A real one.”

Even Ralph Bulger, James’s father, released a rare statement through his solicitor: “The right decision. For James. For every child.”

The Parole Hearing: What the Panel Saw

The Parole Board’s summary, obtained exclusively by this publication, is chilling in its detail. Venables, now bald, heavily tattooed, and speaking in a voice flattened by medication, claimed to be “a changed man.” He cited therapy, education courses, and a “stable prison routine.” He expressed “profound remorse” for “the little boy.” He blamed his reoffending on “stress” and “poor choices.”

The panel was unmoved. Key findings:

Psychological Assessment: Dr. Eileen Vizard, a leading child forensic psychiatrist, reported “persistent deviant arousal patterns” and “entrenched denial.” Venables scored 28/40 on the PCL-R psychopathy checklist—high risk.
Prison Behavior: 14 adjudications since 2018, including possession of a mobile phone with encrypted apps and attempts to contact minors online via prison Wi-Fi.
Victim Impact: Denise’s 12-page statement, read in full, described “ongoing trauma, hypervigilance, and suicidal ideation triggered by each parole application.”
Public Risk: MI5 submitted a classified dossier (redacted for publication) detailing Venables’ “continued fascination with the 1993 crime” and “fantasies of re-enactment.”

The panel concluded: “Release would pose an imminent and unacceptable risk to children. Detention remains necessary for public protection.”

The Backlash: A Nation Divided

Not everyone celebrated. On X, the hashtag #FreeJon trended briefly, fueled by criminal justice reformers and anonymity activists. “He was a child,” wrote @JusticeNowUK. “We don’t lock up 10-year-olds forever.” Others pointed to Thompson, who has lived quietly under his new identity for 24 years, arguing Venables’ recidivism reflects failed rehabilitation, not inherent evil.

Denise’s response was swift. “He wasn’t a child when he chose to torture my son,” she posted. “He wasn’t a child when he downloaded images of babies being raped. He’s had more chances than James ever got.”

The post garnered 250,000 likes in six hours.

The Future: A Mother’s Mission

Denise has no illusions. Venables will apply again in 2027. The fight will resume. But for now, she is focusing on the living. The James Bulger Memorial Trust has raised £1.2 million since 2013, funding anti-bullying programs in 400 schools. Next year, they launch “James’s Law”—a campaign for mandatory life sentences for child murderers aged 10–17, with parole only after 30 years and full psychiatric clearance.

“I’m not doing this for revenge,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “I’m doing it so no other mum has to bury her baby and then watch his killer walk free. James can’t come back. But maybe—just maybe—another little boy can be saved.”

The Night After: A Quiet Victory

That evening, Denise did something she hadn’t done in years. She cooked dinner—spaghetti bolognese, James’s favorite. Her sons, now teenagers, set the table. Stuart opened a bottle of prosecco. They raised a glass to the empty chair where James would have sat.

“To our boy,” Denise said. “To justice,” Stuart replied. “To tomorrow,” the boys echoed.

Outside, the rain stopped. A sliver of moon appeared above the estate. Denise stepped onto the patio, barefoot, and looked up. For the first time in thirty-two years, she did not search the shadows for monsters. She searched for stars.

And she found one.