“Make Him Suffer”: Family Slams UK Law After Killer Attacked

Paul Riverbank, 2/9/2026After a tragic child murder, a family’s anguish exposes the limits and pain of UK justice.

The scale of the search that followed would have been unimaginable until it happened: neighbors, police, strangers from distant towns—everyone with a torch or hope joined the hunt. It was as if the whole town inhaled and then forgot how to exhale. But April did not come home.

Mark Bridger, who lived in a small flat nearby, was arrested days into the search. The details unfolded slowly in court. He faced charges that are chilling even on cold paper—child abduction, murder, interfering with justice, hiding what should never have been hidden. In 2013, the judge handed him a whole-life sentence. In legal terms, that means he’ll die behind bars. It’s the British maximum; there's nothing harsher left on the books.

Yet the facts, however grim, do not explain everything. Much of April’s remains have never been found, a truth that tortures her family year after year. For those left behind—her sister Hazel among them—there is a void that has no legal remedy. When she heard news of Bridger being attacked again in prison, Hazel did not hide her feelings: “He deserves everything he’s getting. He literally deserves it all.” The sentences land hard, edged with anger softened only by an underlying exhaustion. “The death penalty is an easy way out,” Hazel added. “He didn’t give April an easy way out did he? Make him suffer, make him live every day because he’s not coming out. Make him live in fear.”

Some might pause at those words—justice, at its heart, is meant to be dispassionate, a process rather than a reckoning. But grief is not logical, nor is it required to be. For the family, the wound is not just that their lives have been torn open, but that part of April is still missing, both literally and emotionally.

Bridger’s life in prison has not been free of pain; reports have surfaced of him facing violence from other inmates. The tabloids are quick to tally each attack, but justice and vengeance have always been uneasy neighbors. For some, prison violence is a kind of rough justice. For others, it's a sign that trauma is contagious, seeping into every corner—not just the afflicted family, but the institution itself.

Whole-life terms are rare in the UK judicial system, reserved for what society deems the worst of the worst. Yet, as Hazel’s voice makes clear, no sentence feels like enough when a child disappears into unthinkable harm. There are moments when the law and basic human anguish seem to be speaking different languages entirely.

What happened in Machynlleth was not just a personal tragedy—it sparked a national conversation about what justice can mean when it is, by design, never quite enough. The body of law can only do so much, and what it cannot return is what haunts the most: answers, closure, and the feeling of ordinary safety under a small Welsh sky. Even the strictest punishment ends up tinged with the sense that the wound is permanent.

If there’s any lesson here, it’s that true justice in such cases is elusive by nature. For every policy or sentence, there’s a mother, a father, a sister, waking up to the same ache. And for those of us observing from the edge, perhaps the best we can offer is the humility to admit how limited the law is—extraordinary in its intentions, but never quite healing the loss.

It’s impossible to stand in Machynlleth without feeling how the wildness of Wales presses in, all wind and bracken. In October 2012, that wildness closed in a little tighter. One ordinary evening, a five-year-old girl named April vanished from just outside her home. She had been playing—just yards from her front door. In places like Machynlleth, families tend to leave doors on the latch and children’s laughter floats down the road until dusk. Suddenly, that sense of safety snapped.The scale of the search that followed would have been unimaginable until it happened: neighbors, police, strangers from distant towns—everyone with a torch or hope joined the hunt. It was as if the whole town inhaled and then forgot how to exhale. But April did not come home.Mark Bridger, who lived in a small flat nearby, was arrested days into the search. The details unfolded slowly in court. He faced charges that are chilling even on cold paper—child abduction, murder, interfering with justice, hiding what should never have been hidden. In 2013, the judge handed him a whole-life sentence. In legal terms, that means he’ll die behind bars. It’s the British maximum; there's nothing harsher left on the books.Yet the facts, however grim, do not explain everything. Much of April’s remains have never been found, a truth that tortures her family year after year. For those left behind—her sister Hazel among them—there is a void that has no legal remedy. When she heard news of Bridger being attacked again in prison, Hazel did not hide her feelings: “He deserves everything he’s getting. He literally deserves it all.” The sentences land hard, edged with anger softened only by an underlying exhaustion. “The death penalty is an easy way out,” Hazel added. “He didn’t give April an easy way out did he? Make him suffer, make him live every day because he’s not coming out. Make him live in fear.”Some might pause at those words—justice, at its heart, is meant to be dispassionate, a process rather than a reckoning. But grief is not logical, nor is it required to be. For the family, the wound is not just that their lives have been torn open, but that part of April is still missing, both literally and emotionally.Bridger’s life in prison has not been free of pain; reports have surfaced of him facing violence from other inmates. The tabloids are quick to tally each attack, but justice and vengeance have always been uneasy neighbors. For some, prison violence is a kind of rough justice. For others, it's a sign that trauma is contagious, seeping into every corner—not just the afflicted family, but the institution itself.Whole-life terms are rare in the UK judicial system, reserved for what society deems the worst of the worst. Yet, as Hazel’s voice makes clear, no sentence feels like enough when a child disappears into unthinkable harm. There are moments when the law and basic human anguish seem to be speaking different languages entirely.What happened in Machynlleth was not just a personal tragedy—it sparked a national conversation about what justice can mean when it is, by design, never quite enough. The body of law can only do so much, and what it cannot return is what haunts the most: answers, closure, and the feeling of ordinary safety under a small Welsh sky. Even the strictest punishment ends up tinged with the sense that the wound is permanent.If there’s any lesson here, it’s that true justice in such cases is elusive by nature. For every policy or sentence, there’s a mother, a father, a sister, waking up to the same ache. And for those of us observing from the edge, perhaps the best we can offer is the humility to admit how limited the law is—extraordinary in its intentions, but never quite healing the loss.