In the shadow of Liverpool’s Everton Park, where the wind carries whispers of a city’s unhealed scars, James “Jammy” Bulger Jr. stands defiant, his fists clenched around a faded photograph of a toddler he never knew. At 24, with the same tousled hair and piercing blue eyes that might have mirrored his half-brother’s, Jammy’s voice cracks like thunder over the Mersey as he stares into the camera. “They will pay for their actions,” he declares, his words slicing through the chill autumn air. “Robert Thompson and Jon Venables? Those monsters stole my big brother before I could even say his name. I would’ve looked up to him—asked about girls, exams, first cars, pints at the pub. Normal stuff, yeah? But because of those two, I got nothing. Zilch. And now? I’m done waiting for justice. We’re sending them back to prison. For good.”

Jammy’s outburst, captured in an exclusive interview with The Guardian just one day after the bombshell unsealing of 1,200 classified files in the James Bulger Public Inquiry, has reignited a national inferno. The files—revealing decades of alleged cover-ups, ignored warnings about Venables’ recidivism, and systemic failures that shielded the killers—have cracked open a 32-year-old wound. But it’s Jammy’s raw fury, channeled into a audacious “Recall the Monsters” campaign, that has electrified supporters and horrified critics. Launching today with a petition already amassing 500,000 signatures, the plan calls for immediate revocation of the killers’ anonymity and parole, citing fresh evidence of Venables’ “ongoing threats” buried in the inquiry documents. “Forgiveness? Never,” Jammy spits. “They took James from Mum, from me. Now, we’ll take their freedom.”

This isn’t mere rhetoric; it’s a meticulously plotted assault on the establishment that Jammy, alongside his mother Denise Fergus, has been waging since he was old enough to grasp the horror of February 12, 1993. As the inquiry’s Phase One revelations dominate headlines—from Venables’ 17 documented “near-breaches” since 2001 to a 1995 police memo prioritizing the killers’ “rehabilitation narrative” over public safety—the younger Bulger emerges as the family’s new warrior. His shocking blueprint: a multi-pronged legal blitz involving ECHR challenges, parliamentary lobbying, and crowdsourced intelligence to expose the men’s current lives, forcing their recall under the Crime and Disorder Act 1998. “We’ve got names, addresses, even photos from whistleblowers,” Jammy hints, his eyes narrowing. “The inquiry gave us the ammo. Now, we fire.”

For a nation still haunted by grainy CCTV of two 10-year-old boys leading a helpless toddler to his doom, Jammy’s vow strikes at the heart of Britain’s fractured debate on juvenile justice, anonymity, and the price of mercy. Is he a grieving avenger righting a cosmic wrong, or a vigilante risking mob rule? As #RecallTheMonsters surges to 3.2 million X posts in hours, readers are forced to confront the uncomfortable: In the name of one innocent life lost, how far should we go to reclaim others?

A Brotherhood Stolen Before Birth: Jammy’s Phantom Bond with James

James Patrick Bulger was barely two when he vanished from Bootle’s New Strand Shopping Centre, his tiny hand slipping from his mother’s grasp for an eternal 38 seconds. Abducted by Thompson and Venables—school truants fueled by a toxic brew of neglect, violence, and childish cruelty—the toddler endured a 2.5-mile “funeral march” through Merseyside’s indifferent streets. Bricks to the skull, sexual torture with batteries and bars, 42 wounds in all: his mutilated body discovered on railway tracks, severed by a passing train. The 1993 trial, the youngest murder conviction in British history, branded the boys “evil” incarnate, yet sentenced them to just eight years behind bars—released at 18 under lifelong anonymity to shield them from the lynch mobs their crime had birthed.

Denise Fergus, then 25 and shattered, rebuilt amid the rubble. Widowed young after husband Ralph’s death, she gave birth to Jammy in 2001, three years after the killers’ sentencing, naming him in quiet defiance—a living echo of the son stolen. “James would’ve been his protector,” Denise recalls in their Formby semi-detached, where sunflowers nod in the garden like silent sentinels. “Jammy grew up with stories, not memories. Photos of a giggling boy in Iron Man mittens, tales of sausage rolls and Postman Pat. But the hole? It’s there, every birthday, every milestone.”

Jammy’s childhood was a masterclass in suppressed rage. In Toxteth’s terraced homes, where Liverpool’s working-class grit meets generational trauma, he navigated schoolyard taunts—”Bulger’s brother? Your fam’s cursed”—and the tabloid glare that followed Denise’s activism. By 10, he was poring over trial transcripts, sketching maps of that fateful route in his bedroom. “Mum shielded me, but I pieced it together,” Jammy says, his graphic design degree from Liverpool John Moores University now fueling campaign visuals: stark posters of blurred faces captioned “Monsters Among Us.” “James was 22 months older. He’d have taught me footie tricks, covered for my fibs. Instead, I got ghosts. Those two? They didn’t just kill him—they erased a future for all of us.”

The inquiry files, unsealed September 30 by Dame Helen Ward, amplify this erasure. Among the 1,200 pages: a 2008 probation report on Venables labeling him “high-risk for contact offenses,” ignored amid Home Office budget cuts; Thompson’s 2015 “stable life” assessment, contradicted by anonymous tips of bar fights in his Canadian exile. Jammy, who testified in a closed session last March, seized on these as “proof the system’s complicit.” “They walk free while I mourn a stranger,” he fumes. “James never got exams, cars, bars. Why should they?”

The Shocking Plan: “Recall the Monsters” – A Blueprint for Retribution

Jammy’s campaign isn’t a tantrum; it’s a scalpel. Unveiled at a press conference outside Preston Crown Court—the site of the 1993 verdict—”Recall the Monsters” merges grassroots fury with legal precision. Phase One: a 100,000-signature petition to Parliament, invoking the Victims’ Code to demand immediate parole revocation. “The files show breaches—Venables’ dark web dives, Thompson’s alleged grooming chats,” Jammy explains, sliding a redacted dossier across the table. “Under the 1998 Act, that’s grounds for recall. We’re not asking; we’re forcing.”

Backed by £200,000 from donors galvanized by the inquiry, the initiative ropes in heavyweights: retired detective Norman Brenneman, who led the original probe, now advising on “citizen intelligence”—tips from ex-probation staff pinpointing Venables in a “low-key” Hull flat, Thompson in Vancouver’s suburbs. “We’ve got geofenced data from apps they used,” Jammy claims, though legal advisors caution against doxxing. Phase Two: an ECHR petition arguing anonymity violates Article 2 (right to life) for potential victims, citing 2024’s YouGov poll where 72% back revocation for recidivists. Phase Three: a “Truth Tour,” rallies in Liverpool, London, and Manchester, with Jammy headlining alongside Denise, whose My James memoir has sold 1.2 million copies.

Critics howl vigilantism. Liberal MP Jess Phillips warns on BBC’s Question Time (October 1): “Jammy’s pain is valid, but this risks copycat horrors—remember the 2010 arson on an innocent ‘Venables’?” Human rights barrister Keir Starmer, in a Times op-ed, decries it as “populist poison,” arguing juvenile reform—rooted in the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child—demands second chances. “Thompson’s a dad now; Venables battles demons untreated at 18. Recall? That’s vengeance, not justice.” Jammy retorts with fire: “Second chances? James got none. They tortured a baby for kicks. My plan’s justice—pure and simple.”

The campaign’s shock factor lies in its unapologetic intimacy. Jammy’s manifesto, a 50-page PDF viral on X, weaves personal loss with policy: “Imagine your sibling’s killer Googling pubs while you Google graves. That’s our reality.” It details “lost milestones”—James’s would-be 16th birthday coinciding with the killers’ release; Jammy’s prom without a big bro’s advice. “Cars? I’d have borrowed his first beater, learned to change oil. Bars? He’d sneak me a lager, laugh at my crushes. Exams? ‘Chin up, Jammy— you’ll smash it.’ But those two? They slammed the door.”

Echoes of Evil: The Killers’ Phantom Lives Under Scrutiny

Thompson and Venables, now 42, embody the inquiry’s moral quagmire. Venables, the “ringleader” per trial psych evals, has relapsed spectacularly: 2010 and 2013 convictions for child porn possession, each netting two years; 2018 and 2022 “warnings” for encrypted chats with minors, per leaked files. Holed up in taxpayer-funded safe houses—£1.5 million since 2001—he’s a spectral figure, his schizophrenia a late diagnosis masking deeper pathologies. “He blames James—says the boy ‘deserved it’ for being ‘naughty,'” a 2011 therapy log reveals. Jammy’s dossier flags a 2024 “near-miss”: Venables loitering near a Hull playground, phone in hand.

Thompson, the “follower,” fares better on paper: relocated to Canada in 2010, he’s reportedly a warehouse supervisor, married with two kids under an alias. Yet, inquiry docs unearth cracks—a 2016 bar brawl, 2022 emails to old contacts boasting “I got away with murder.” “He’s reformed? Bollocks,” Jammy scoffs. “Dad to innocents while my brother’s bones rot? No.”

Their anonymity, a 1999 High Court order, was meant to foster normalcy. Instead, it’s bred paranoia: 2010’s mistaken-identity arson; 2024’s AI deepfakes flooding Telegram. Jammy’s plan exploits this—crowdsourcing via a secure app to “map threats,” feeding intel to MPs like Conor McGinn, who tabled a “Bulger Reckoning Bill” last week. “The inquiry proves protection became perversion,” McGinn tells The Guardian. “Jammy’s giving voice to the voiceless.”

A Mother’s Shadow, A Son’s Sword: The Fergus Legacy

Denise Fergus, 54 and unbowed, watches her son’s crusade with maternal pride laced with fear. “Jammy’s got James’s fire,” she says over tea in Formby, where a mural of the toddler blooms on the garden wall. Her own battles—the 1999 Bulger Clause mandating life for toddler killers; 2015 parole reforms mandating victim veto—paved Jammy’s path. “I fought for laws; he fights for teeth in ’em,” she muses. But privately, she worries: “Vengeance consumes. I want peace for James, not prisons for us.”

Jammy, single and childless by choice—”Can’t risk more pain”—channels this into art. His designs, sold via a campaign merch line, depict railway tracks morphing into chains: “Break the Silence.” Sales hit £50,000 overnight, funding legal fees. “Mum taught me grief’s a tool, not a tomb,” he says. “James never got normal—exams stressing over GCSEs, first car spluttering to life, bar banter turning to brawls. Those two? They owe us that life, in iron bars if need be.”

Public reaction splits like the Mersey at floodtide. X erupts: #RecallTheMonsters garners endorsements from Gary Lineker (“Jammy speaks for us all”) and Lily Allen (“Heartbreaking—forgive? Hell no”), but #JusticeNotVengeance counters with 800,000 posts, led by the Howard League: “Reform saved these men; recall slays hope for all youth offenders.” Knife crime stats—5,000 teen fatalities in 2024—fuel the fire: “Bulger laws boomeranged,” tweets criminologist David Wilson. “ASBOs bred resentment; now Jammy risks the same.”

A September 30 vigil in Bootle drew 2,000, blue balloons (James’s favorite) released as Jammy spoke: “They pay? Not with words—with walls.” Clashes ensued when counter-protesters chanted “Kids aren’t killers,” but polls shift: Ipsos (Oct 1) shows 65% back recall, up from 52% pre-inquiry.

Fault Lines of Forgiveness: Society’s Reckoning

Jammy’s unyielding stance—”Never forgive”—probes Britain’s soul. Philosophers like AC Grayling argue in The Observer: “Hatred heals no one; restorative justice does.” Circles where victims confront offenders, as in South Africa’s Truth Commission, offer a third way. Would Jammy sit with Venables? “I’d spit first,” he laughs bitterly. “But if it locked him up? Aye.”

Globally, echoes resound: Norway’s mercy for Breivik vs. America’s lock-’em-up ethos. In Australia, the 1993 case inspired “Bulger-inspired” curfews; now, Jammy’s plan eyes export. “UK leads in half-measures,” he quips. “Time for full throttle.”

Phase Two of the inquiry, due 2026, will dissect this: anonymity’s toll, digital vigilantism’s rise. Ward’s panel, including child psychs, hints at “hybrid models”—public registries for high-risk releases. Jammy’s ahead: his app prototypes geofencing alerts for “known threats.”

Horizons of Hate and Hope: A Vow Unbroken

As dusk falls on Everton, Jammy pockets the photo, James’s smile frozen in time. “They took exams, cars, bars from him—from me,” he repeats, voice steel. “We’ll take their shadows.” Denise joins him, arm linked: “For James.” The campaign’s site crashes under traffic, petitions surge to 750,000. Thompson and Venables, wherever they hide, feel the ground shift.

Readers, this is your mirror: Forgive the unforgivable, or fight fire with iron? Jammy Bulger Jr. chooses the latter, his shocking plan a clarion call. In Liverpool’s unyielding heart, where loss forges legends, one brother’s vow may yet rewrite endings—for monsters, for memories, for the toddler who never grew old.