The words hang in the air like a long-suppressed truth finally breaking free: “I’ve waited half my life for this.” Denise Fergus delivers them with a quiet intensity that cuts through the room, her voice steady but laced with decades of raw, unrelenting pain. Sitting in a softly lit studio, the mother of James Bulger—now 57, yet carrying the weight of a grief that began when she was just 25—looks directly into the camera. There is no rehearsed drama here, only the calm resolve of a woman who has spent 32 years fighting for her murdered son while the world debated, judged, and moved on.
For those who remember February 12, 1993, the date remains etched in collective memory as one of Britain’s darkest days. Two-year-old James Bulger, a bright-eyed toddler in a blue anorak, was abducted from the New Strand Shopping Centre in Bootle, Merseyside. CCTV footage captured the moment forever: his tiny hand held by Jon Venables, then 10, as Robert Thompson, also 10, walked alongside. What followed was a horror that shocked the nation—James was tortured, battered with bricks and an iron bar, and left dying on railway tracks where a train severed his body. The killers were children themselves, yet the brutality was unimaginable.
The trial that followed gripped the country. Thompson and Venables became the youngest murderers convicted in modern British history. Sentenced to detention at Her Majesty’s pleasure with a recommended minimum of eight years, they were released on licence in 2001 at age 18 under new identities, a decision that sparked fury and questions about juvenile justice. Robert Thompson has since lived quietly, reportedly reformed and out of the public eye. Jon Venables, however, has been recalled to prison twice—first in 2010, then again in 2017—for possessing indecent images of children. Each breach reopened old wounds for the Bulger family.
Now, in early 2026, Denise Fergus speaks out amid fresh developments that have reignited hope. A new parole hearing for Venables—his latest bid for freedom after previous rejections—has been scheduled, and for the first time, Denise has been granted the right to attend and deliver a victim impact statement. She will sit in the room (or via video link) and face the process head-on, potentially hearing Venables’ adult voice for the first time since the 1993 trial when he was a frightened boy in the dock.
“I’ve waited half my life for this,” she says in the exclusive interview, her eyes unwavering. “Closer than ever.” The single new revelation she alludes to isn’t a dramatic bombshell of forgotten evidence or a secret witness emerging from the shadows. It is simpler, yet profoundly powerful: the Parole Board’s decision to allow her presence at the hearing, a step that previous processes denied. After years of being sidelined, of learning outcomes through media leaks or official letters, Denise can now speak directly into the record. She can remind the panel—and Venables himself—that James was more than a headline. He was her son, a little boy who loved Thomas the Tank Engine, who giggled at bubbles, whose absence still echoes in every family moment.
The interview leaves viewers stunned because it strips away the abstraction. Denise describes preparing for “weeks of purgatory and trauma,” knowing the hearing could coincide with the anniversary of James’s abduction on February 12. She speaks of her deepest fear: that Venables, now 43, “bigger and stronger” than the child who committed the crime, could walk free again. “He’s had chances,” she says firmly. “He’s breached licence conditions twice with serious offences involving children. Why should there be another?”
She calls for a change in the law—clear, unyielding reform. If an offender breaches parole terms multiple times, particularly in cases involving child exploitation material after a murder conviction, the door to release should close permanently. “I said years ago they weren’t properly punished, and one has gone on to re-offend—not once, but twice,” she explains. “The system keeps giving chances while families like mine live in limbo.”
The emotional toll is palpable. Denise recalls the moment she learned of the latest hearing grant. Hope flickered—not for vengeance, but for accountability. She has campaigned tirelessly through the James Bulger Memorial Trust, supporting families of child victims and pushing for stronger protections. Yet each parole application forces her back into the nightmare: reliving CCTV images, autopsy reports, the grainy security footage of James’s final walk. “It reopens unimaginable trauma,” her spokeswoman Kym Morris has said on her behalf. But Denise refuses to hide. “I will fight until my last breath,” she vows.
Public reaction has been swift and polarized. Supporters flood social media with messages of solidarity: “Denise Fergus is the definition of strength.” “Justice for James—keep him locked away.” Others debate rehabilitation, juvenile culpability, and whether Venables—now a middle-aged man—deserves a chance at redemption after serving time for his later crimes. The Parole Board maintains its independence, assessing risk based on psychological reports, behaviour in custody, and rehabilitation progress. No date has been set, but the process looms, expected soon after January announcements.
Denise’s composure masks profound sorrow. She speaks of James not as a symbol, but as her boy—the one who would be 35 today if he had lived. She imagines what he might have become: perhaps a father, a brother to the siblings born later, a man with his own dreams. Instead, his name became synonymous with Britain’s struggle over youth crime, anonymity orders, and lifelong punishment.
The “new revelation” Denise references carries symbolic weight. For 32 years, she has navigated a system that protected the killers’ identities while exposing her family to constant scrutiny. Anonymity lifted briefly in court, but new identities shielded them afterward. Breaches by Venables pierced that veil, yet the cycle repeated. Now, her voice in the room shifts the dynamic. She can look toward justice—not revenge, but the assurance that past horrors won’t be minimized.
Viewers watching the interview feel the gravity. Denise’s words—“I’ve waited half my life for this”—resonate because they capture endurance. Half a lifetime of protests, petitions, quiet nights of tears, public statements delivered through gritted teeth. She has buried rage beneath dignity, channeling it into advocacy. “I hope he never sees the light of day again,” she says of Venables, not with hatred, but with the weary certainty of a mother who knows danger.
The case remains a lightning rod. In 1993, it prompted soul-searching about childhood violence, media influence (violent films like Child’s Play 3 were controversially linked, though never proven), and sentencing for minors. The European Court of Human Rights later ruled aspects of the trial unfair due to media saturation, yet the convictions stood. Thompson’s apparent reintegration contrasts sharply with Venables’ recidivism, fueling arguments on both sides.
Denise doesn’t dwell on hypotheticals. She focuses on the present: the hearing ahead, the statement she will read, the chance to say James’s name aloud in the place where decisions are made. “This is for my little boy,” she whispers at one point, voice catching. The moment is raw, human, and utterly compelling.
As the interview ends, Denise remains calm, unbreakable. She has no illusions—the system moves slowly, and outcomes are uncertain. But for the first time in decades, she feels agency. Hope emerges not from vengeance, but from the simple act of being heard.
Britain watches, stunned once more by a story that refuses to fade. Thirty-two years on, James Bulger’s mother stands ready. She has waited half her life. Now, justice—at last—feels within reach.