In the dim, rain-lashed streets of Bootle, Merseyside, where the Mersey’s gray waters lap against a skyline scarred by decades of industrial decay, a single moment in February 1993 shattered the nation’s soul. It was a Friday afternoon, the kind where shopping trolleys rattle over cracked pavements and mothers clutch their toddlers’ hands against the chill. Denise Fergus, then 26 and seven months pregnant with her second child, paused at the butcher’s counter in the New Strand Shopping Centre. In a fleeting lapse—mere seconds to fish change from her purse—her two-year-old son, James Bulger, slipped his tiny hand from hers. He toddled toward the exit, his blue coat a fleeting splash of color amid the bustle. What followed was a horror that would etch itself into Britain’s collective psyche: James, lured away by two 10-year-old boys, Jon Venables and Robert Thompson, endured two hours of unimaginable torment before his battered body was discovered on a railway track, severed in half by an oncoming train. Thirty-two years later, on the eve of the tragedy’s anniversary in 2025, Denise Fergus breaks her silence once more. In an exclusive ITV interview, she reveals long-buried, heart-wrenching photos of James—images of innocence frozen in time, a baby’s gurgle, a toddler’s grin. But as these tender glimpses emerge, fury erupts over Channel 4’s latest documentary, “The Bulger Case: Echoes of Evil,” accused of humanizing the killers and reopening wounds that never healed. This is a haunting tale of loss, outrage, and a tragedy that refuses to fade—a story that asks: Can Britain ever forgive, or forget?

Picture the scene: February 12, 1993, 3:40 p.m. The Strand buzzes with pre-weekend shoppers—pensioners haggling over lamb chops, teens loitering by the escalators. Denise, her dark hair tied back in a practical ponytail, juggles a pram and James’s hand, his bobbed haircut bouncing as he points at passing pigeons. “Hold on tight, Jamie,” she murmurs, a mother’s instinct honed by the chaos of single parenthood. Ralph Bulger, James’s father, is at work; the couple, separated but co-parenting, share custody in their modest terraced home on St. Mary’s Road. James—chubby-cheeked, with eyes like polished chestnuts and a laugh that could melt the frostiest Liverpool winter—is the light of their fractured world. Born on March 16, 1990, he was a bundle of mischief: stacking bricks into wobbly towers, splashing in bubble baths, demanding “up, up!” for airplane rides on Daddy’s shoulders. Denise, a checkout girl at a local supermarket, dotes on him fiercely, her own childhood in care homes forging a resolve to shield him from hurt.

But in those fateful seconds, evil slithers in. Venables and Thompson—schoolmates from St. Mary’s Primary, products of broken homes and unchecked neglect—spot James at the butcher’s door. Venables, the chubby one with a deceptive cherub’s face, coos at him; Thompson, wiry and steely-eyed, takes his hand. CCTV footage, grainy but gut-wrenching, captures the trio’s 38-minute walk through Bootle: James, trusting, clutching a toy as they veer toward the canal. What unfolds next is a descent into depravity that defies comprehension. The boys lead him to Walton Lane Police Station’s car park, then to an abandoned construction site, pelting him with bricks, battering him with iron bars. Witnesses glimpse them—two lads dragging a crying child—but dismiss it as playground roughhousing. James’s final hours: stripped partially, painted blue with stolen pens, his cries muffled by terror. They abandon him on the tracks at Walton, arranging bricks around his head like a macabre halo, expecting the train to erase their crime. At 6:30 p.m., a freight locomotive does just that, bisecting his tiny frame. His body, discovered by shocked rail workers, bears over 40 injuries—blunt force trauma, sexual assault, the work of hands too small for such savagery.

Denise’s world implodes at 7 p.m. A frantic search—neighbors combing streets, police helicopters thumping overhead—yields nothing until a knock at midnight: “Is your name Fergus? We’ve found Jamie.” Rushed to Royal Liverpool Children’s Hospital, she collapses at the sight: her boy’s mutilated form, blue sheets stained crimson. “That’s not my baby,” she whispers, denial a fragile shield. The post-mortem reveals horrors no mother should know—liver lacerations, skull fractures, semen traces. News leaks like poison: tabloids scream “Evil Unmasked,” the grainy CCTV of the trio becomes iconic, a freeze-frame of innocence stolen. Britain reels—protests erupt outside the court, effigies of the boys burned, public grief manifesting in teddy bears piled at the Strand. Prime Minister John Major commissions a Home Office review on youth crime; The Sun brands the killers “monsters.” For Denise, seven months pregnant, the trauma triggers early labor; her son Michael arrives days later, a bittersweet anchor amid the abyss.

Fast-forward to October 2025, and the wound festers anew. Denise Fergus, now 58, sits in her sunlit Liverpool living room, surrounded by James’s relics: a porcelain clown from his second birthday, a lock of his baby-fine hair in a velvet box. Her eyes, lined by decades of advocacy, soften as she unveils the photos—long-buried treasures from a pre-tragedy vault. One: James as a newborn, nestled in her arms at Arrowe Park Hospital, his tiny fist clutching her finger, both gazing at the camera with sleepy wonder. Another: bath time bliss, suds crowning his head like a foam tiara, giggles captured mid-splash. A third: park play, Denise kneeling as James toddles toward her, hands outstretched in joyful surrender, autumn leaves carpeting the grass like confetti. These images, shielded from public gaze since 1993 to preserve their sanctity, emerge in ITV’s “James Bulger: Echoes of a Mother’s Heart,” a poignant special marking 32 years. “I’ve kept them locked away,” Denise confides to interviewer Fiona Bruce, her voice a tapestry of resolve and raw ache. “They were ours—mine and Jamie’s. But now, with this new storm, I want the world to see him alive, laughing, not just… that.”

The “storm” is Channel 4’s “The Bulger Case: Echoes of Evil,” aired October 5, 2025—a 90-minute dissection billed as “re-examining justice in a fractured society.” Directed by acclaimed filmmaker Laura Vance, it features reconstructions with child actors (faces blurred, voices modulated), interviews with criminologists, and—controversially—testimonies from anonymized “experts” on the killers’ upbringings. Venables and Thompson, released in 2001 after eight years in secure units, receive veiled sympathy: archival clips of their chaotic homes—Venables’s father a drunk, Thompson’s mother an alcoholic—juxtaposed with child psychologist Dr. Elena Hargrove’s analysis: “These were boys, not born evil, but molded by neglect. Society failed them, as it failed James.” The doc questions the life sentences’ fairness, highlights Venables’s 2010 and 2017 child porn convictions (earning two-year stints), and ponders Thompson’s rumored “model life” in Canada. It ends with a provocative query: “Was justice done, or vengeance disguised?”

Outrage ignites like dry tinder. Within hours, #BoycottChannel4 trends with 250,000 posts; Ofcom logs 5,000 complaints, the highest since 2020’s “Race Riots Revisited.” Denise, who had no involvement, blasts it on X: “This isn’t remembrance—it’s revisionism. They glorify monsters while my son’s pain is a footnote.” Protests swell outside Channel 4’s Horseferry Road HQ—mums with placards reading “James Was Two—Don’t Humanise Hell,” vigils at the Strand with battery-powered lanterns mimicking his lost smile. Baroness Doreen Lawrence, whose son’s 1993 murder paralleled James’s, joins the fray: “Channel 4 exploits trauma for ratings. Denise’s photos? A slap in the face.” Even Prime Minister Keir Starmer weighs in, calling for “sensitive handling” in a Downing Street briefing, while Culture Secretary Lisa Nandy demands an Ofcom fast-track review. Petitions surge— one for a public inquiry into media ethics hits 100,000 signatures overnight, echoing Denise’s 2018 call that garnered 15,000.

Denise’s ITV counter-narrative is a masterclass in maternal defiance. Filmed in her home, it sidesteps sensationalism for intimacy: her tracing James’s face in photos, voice cracking as she recounts bath songs (“Row, row, row your boat…”). “He loved the bubbles—popped them with his toes,” she smiles, tears tracing familiar paths. The special delves into her odyssey: post-murder media frenzy forcing relocation to Glasgow, then Anfield; campaigns for the 1999 Macpherson Report exposing police racism (though James’s case spotlighted youth offending); founding the James Bulger Memorial Trust in 2012, aiding 500+ crime victims. “I didn’t want Jamie defined by death,” she tells Bruce. “These photos? They’re his legacy—proof he was joy, not just victim.” Viewers tune in by the millions—9.2 million, per BARB—praising its “raw humanity” against Channel 4’s “cold calculus.” Social media flips: #SeeJamesSmile counters the fury, fans sharing their own lost-child tributes.

Yet, the controversy peels back layers of Britain’s enduring scar. The 1993 trial— the UK’s first of children in adult court, broadcast restrictions be damned—remains seismic. Venables and Thompson, tried at Preston Crown Court, slouched in the dock, doodling as 42 wounds were cataloged. Jurors gasped at evidence: James’s DNA on their shoes, fibers from his coat in their lungs. Guilty verdied November 24; detention “at Her Majesty’s pleasure” until 18. Released 2001 amid uproar—new IDs, £1 million+ security—their anonymity a bone of contention. Venables’s recidivism: 2010 arrest for indecent images (jailed two years), 2017 for more (another two), 2023 parole denial after “high risk” assessment. Thompson? Whispers of a stable life—marriage, job in hospitality—but silence enforced by injunctions. Denise’s 2023 High Court bid to lift anonymity failed; she rails: “They walk free; James can’t.”

The doc’s defenders—Vance among them—argue nuance: “Evil isn’t innate; it’s nurtured. Ignoring roots perpetuates cycles.” Criminologist Prof. David Wilson, interviewed, cites 1990s stats: 1 in 5 Liverpool kids in poverty, abuse rife. But critics, including MP Jess Phillips, decry “poverty porn”—exploiting class woes to excuse atrocity. Echoes resound: 2019’s Oscar-nominated “Detainment,” recreating the crime with child actors, drew Denise’s fury (“Disgusting—without my consent”). Petitions hit 100,000; director Vincent Lambe stood firm, but the backlash stalled its release. 2025’s exposé mirrors this: child actors (aged 12, ethically vetted) reenact the abduction, Thompson’s “tough” sneer, Venables’s “pretty” facade—phrases from trial transcripts that chilled the gallery.

Denise’s photos, conversely, humanize the victim. The baby-on-lap shot, from 1990, captures James’s first smile—Denise’s finger in his mouth, both lost in milky contentment. The bath image: 1992, suds veiling his eyes, a rubber duck sentinel. The park play: weeks before, leaves swirling as he reaches for her, captioned in her album “My little explorer.” Revealed in the ITV special, they flood social feeds—tributes from celebrities like Gary Lineker (“Heartbreaking—James deserves this light”) to everyday mums (“My boy’s same age; hugs tighter tonight”). The Trust sees a surge: donations up 300%, inquiries from bullying victims doubling. Denise, remarried to Jim Fergus since 2000 (mother to Michael, now 32, and twins Jaden and Grace, 21), channels it: “Pain’s my fuel. These photos? They’re Jamie saying, ‘Mum, keep going.’”

Broader ripples lap at policy. Post-1993, youth justice reformed: Youth Justice Board created 1998, custody thresholds raised. But failures linger—2024 stats: 1,200 under-18s in secure units, knife crime spiking 7%. Starmer’s government pledges “root-and-branch” review, inspired by Bulger. Denise lobbies Parliament, her 2025 testimony: “Anonymity protects predators, not public. End it.” Polls (YouGov, Oct 2025) show 68% agree, up from 55% in 2018.

As October’s fog rolls over Bootle, the Strand bears fresh memorials: a plaque unveiled October 12, etched “James Patrick Bulger, 1990-1993: Forever in Our Hearts.” Denise lays roses, photos tucked in her pocket. Channel 4 retracts? No—Vance defends: “Dialogue heals.” But for Denise, healing’s personal: a nursery rhyme hummed to ghosts, photos framing a life unlived. Britain’s heart, broken in ’93, mends jagged—outrage fueling remembrance, loss birthing light. James’s images? Not just pictures, but protests: against forgetting, forgiving too soon. In their gaze, a toddler’s plea: See me. Remember me. Love me still.

Yet, delve deeper, and Denise’s resilience shines. Post-1993, therapy fractured—PTSD, guilt’s vise (“I let go”). Suicide ideation shadowed her; Michael’s birth, a tether. By 2000, remarriage to Jim, a security guard with steady hands, rebuilt foundations. Twins arrived via IVF, a miracle amid mockery—tabloids dubbing her “serial breeder.” The Trust, born 2012, pivots grief: anti-bullying packs to schools, victim support helplines. 2025 sees expansion—VR simulations for empathy training, trialed in Merseyside primaries.

The doc’s fallout? Ofcom probes; Channel 4’s viewership spikes 40%, but advertisers flee—Nike pulls spots, citing “insensitivity.” Vance, 42, Oxford-educated, faces doxxing: “I honor all victims—James most.” Her film cites 1998 Wood Report: killers’ “deprived backgrounds” key. But Denise counters: “Deprivation doesn’t decapitate toddlers.”

Cultural scars: Bulger birthed “stranger danger” PSAs, ASBOs (axed 2011). Art echoes—Blake Morrison’s 1997 poem “The Ballad of James Bulger,” 2022’s “Little Boy Blue” (ITV, 7 million viewers). Denise’s 2018 memoir “I Let Him Go” sold 100,000; 2025 sequel “Seeing Jamie” tops charts, photos interspersed.

Protests peak October 14: 2,000 at Westminster, Denise speaking: “Channel 4? They profit from pain.” Chants: “Justice for James!” Police kettle fringes; arrests minimal. Nandy announces inquiry: media guidelines on child crime docs.

For the Fergus household, normalcy’s veneer: Michael’s carpentry business, twins at uni (nursing, law). Christmas? James’s place set, empty chair a ritual. Denise’s faith—Catholic, lapsed—rekindled: “Jamie’s my angel.”

As 2025 wanes, the images endure—Britain’s broken heart, mended by memory. Denise’s final words to Bruce: “He’d be 35—tall, laughing, maybe a dad. These photos? All I have. But they’re enough to fight.” In Bootle’s drizzle, a mother’s roar echoes: Fury forges forward. James, unseen no more, smiles eternal.