by Wade, Calvin
“There are a lot of people tonight with blood on their hands.”
Gary, the male half of the couple explained as he sped along the M58,
“Think about it, Richie, there’s a multitude of people who deserve to take their fair share of responsibility for this. Do you believe in God, Richie?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Neither do I mate, neither do I. I think that makes it worse to be honest, mate. Just thinking these people had their lunch somewhere in Sheffield today, all excited about the game, talked tactics, talked scorelines, eagerly arrived early to get a good view of the pitch, then, because of a string of mistakes by bureaucrats, people they didn’t even know, their whole existence has been snuffed out. “
Gary clicked his fingers.
“Just like that, gone. Just imagine going to the match with your mate today, getting separated by the surge, getting out and discovering your mate never did. It doesn’t bear thinking about.”
Gary obviously had a lot running through his head, there were various people he held responsible for the tragedy, a lot of the time we sat in silence, but once in a while he thought about another section of society who played their part in creating this disaster and wanted to vent his anger. He dealt with the Football Association and the Government and then moved on.
“You know who else I blame, Richie? I blame every single football hooligan in this sorry nation of ours. I’m not talking about today, I’m talking about violence on the terraces and outside the grounds over the last ten years. These pricks think it’s clever to fight in the name of eleven men they don’t even know against some other daft fuck who’s fighting for his eleven men, who he doesn’t know either, just because they kick their ball at his ground and he decided at five years old that he liked their football shirt. Think about it, Richie, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it? But as a result of these stupid thick twats fighting with each other, the rest of us are all caged in like animals every time we go to a game! Then tragedies like todays happen because innocent kids and young men and women are trapped in the cages these knobheads have caused to be there.
I also blame the police. They just stood there and watched dozens and dozens of people die in front of their eyes. Collectively, could they not have done something more? Why did they not delay the kick off or talk to each other on their walkie-talkies and stop people getting in or put them into our section, by the corner flag, which wasn’t even full? How could they have got it so wrong?
You know what, Richie, you know what I think would be a tiny piece of justice?”
“What?”
“If every single person and group I’ve mentioned was forced to attend as many of the funerals as it was physically possible to attend. Let them witness first hand what their stupidity and incompetence has done. See the families they’ve destroyed. See the heartbreak they’ve created. They should all be made to line up in front of the mourners and made to say,
‘I am responsible for the death of your father, your mother, your husband, your wife, your daughter, your son…’ whoever. Because I tell you what, Richie, over the next few weeks, mark my words, no-one will take their share of responsibility, everyone will blame everyone else . I hope I’m wrong, I hope all these idiots come forward and carry the can for their mistakes, but they won’t, mark my words, Richie, they won’t.”
Gary let go of the steering wheel then simultaneously slammed both arms down onto it.
“How can something like this be allowed to happen? It’s just insane!”
I asked Gary to drop me off at the Little Chef in Skelmersdale, by the exit of the M58, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He took me all the way to Aughton, dropping me off outside my door.
Mum and Dad were in the lounge watching TV when I came in. Mum came up to me and without saying a word kissed me on the forehead. I knew exactly what she meant by this. It was a way of saying we were the lucky ones.
I struggled to sleep that night. Peter Jones’ commentary kept going round and round in my head,
“who would have known that people would die here, in the stadium, this afternoon.”
As I finally drifted off, my mind bade farewell to the horrors of the day, selfishly relieved it was no-one I knew. Little did I know, four hours later an all together different grief would be heading my way.
Richie (24 hours earlier)
I hate going to the Doctor’s. Always have. Give me the Dentist’s any day. At the Dentist, they’ll tell you that you need a filling or a tooth out, they won’t tell you that your arteries are clogged and your tickers knackered or chances are you have cancer. I’m sure 99% of the time, GPs don’t deliver nightmare news but Dentists never do, so I know which one I’d rather visit.
I sat in the waiting room nervously. To me, the sound of multiple coughers is like nails on a blackboard. Excruciatingly annoying! I looked around. A Doctor’s waiting room is a mixture of the old and the new. For the old, its like a fitting room for the undertakers,
“Could you get up on the bed, please.”
“What for? I only came in with a cough.”
“I know. We just need to measure you up for your coffin.”
I mentally berated myself. I was not in a position to be taking the mickey out of anyone who may be edging towards death, for all I knew these old guys might be out lasting me.
It was just impossible not to notice though that the surgery was full of old people and paranoid parents who bring their babies down because they have a runny nose and Mummy’s bored, looking for something to do as toddler classes don’t start for another twelve months.
I was the odd one out. As I gave my name to the receptionist, I felt like the “townie” ordering a pint in a small village pub. I could feel the looks. I was half-expecting someone with a West Country accent to tap me on the shoulder and say,
“You ain’t from these parts, are you?”
As I gave the lady my name, babies stopped crying, coughers stopped coughing and the coffin dodgers who had hitherto been facing away from me, managed to muster 180 degree mobility in their necks, probably for the first time in years. Everyone wanted to know who was gatecrashing their early morning moan fest.
I’m sure a dozen regulars played “Guess The New Boys Illness” in their own minds. It was time. The lump had outgrown its scrotal nest and was now seeking a wider audience. I could hold it back no longer. It had been around now for twelve months, it wasn’t a baby any more. Despite a 9.30a.m appointment, I had to sit in the waiting room collecting germs until gone ten. Readers Digest, May 1987, had never seemed so interesting. At five past, I was all set to have a word with the receptionist but her demeanour was off putting. Dr.Whiteside had obviously borrowed her from a Victorian orphanage and frozen her in time for a hundred years as she was extremely adept at denying anyone access to the Doctor. I imagine Oliver Twist would not even have got his first bowl of gruel off this tyrant. She seemed fascinated with the phone, which I suppose was only natural given her Victorian background,
“Well, I don’t care if your three year old has contracted rabies, Mrs. Funnell. Dr.Whiteside is extremely busy until a week next Friday, bring him in then. I bid you good day!”
At ten past ten, nerves in tatters, I got the call,
“Richard Billingham, Dr.Whiteside will see you now.”
I crept over to the receptionist to avoid disapproving looks from the pensioners, who by now, en masse, had buried their heads in the magazine offerings of the surgery, the aforementioned Readers Digest, Woman and Lancashire Life.
“Excuse me,” I timdly began, “whereabouts is the Doctor?”
The receptionist fixed me a look from above her spectacles, balanced on the tip of her nose, as though I had passed her a second hand instrument from an Ann Summers catalogue, with a wiry hair still attached and asked her to demonstrate it to the whole waiting room. Disgust was not the word.
“Second door on the right, you fucking idiot!” she said, but the last three words were silent, they just pa
ssed from her brain to mine telepathically.
I walked out the coughing/coffin room, into a creaking hallway and along to a second door on the right. I knocked and waited,
“Come in!” replied the rather jovial voice from the other side.
I pulled the door to me. Nothing happened so I pushed. Doors were always “push” in that scenario, with the exception of toilet doors which were often “pull”. I cursed my unconscious incompetence. Nerves, I figured.
Dr.Whiteside sat behind a large mahogany desk, looking like he had been there since he had been in short trousers, placed in Ormskirk to provide prescriptions since the end of World War II. He dressed in a rare mix of colourful shirt, dickie bow and a cardigan containing an array of browns and greys.
“Take a seat,” he gestured.
There were two. I was unsure if this was a psychological test, but concluded it was more likely a spare for anxious mothers. I suddenly had visions of childhood. Mum dragging me down to the Doctor’s, describing my ailments as if I was mute. On reflection, this was the first time I had ventured to the Doctor’s alone. I felt very alone. I sat.
“And what appears to be the problem?” Dr.Whiteside probed.
I started to blush. I knew within a few minutes he would be inspecting my scrotum. I prayed to the God that I did not believe in to save me from an inopportune erection. Throughout my teenage years, I was always in fear that it would decide to stand to attention when I least wanted it to.
“I have a lump on one of my testicles.”
By now my face was crimson. I felt like Dr.Whiteside was going to take an egg out his pocket and fry it on my face.
Dr.Whiteside began to take notes.
“When did you first notice it?”
To avoid sounding like an idiot, I made a reduction. A year sounded too long.
“A few months ago, I thought it may just clear up by itself, but it hasn’t.”
“Does it hurt when you touch it?”
“No, not really.”
“Does it feel uncomfortable?”
“It’s hard to describe, it just feels strange. Like a small piece of wood is trapped in there.”
Dr.Whiteside put his pen down.
“OK. Take yourself behind that screen, pop your trousers off, then once you’re done, climb on that bed over there.”
Five uncomfortable minutes followed. Thankfully when Dr.Whiteside asked if I could just take my boxer shorts down, nothing stirred, in fact, it probably shrank a little. Sometimes you just worry that if your brain is saying,
“Don’t have an erection! Don’t have an erection! Don’t have an erection!”
Your willy might just think,
“This’ll be a laugh!”
Luckily, this was not one of those occasions. After a minute or two of inspecting, Dr.Whiteside told me I could pull my boxer shorts back up and get myself dressed. When I came out from behind the screen, I felt strangely liberated. I now felt I could ask him anything. Dr.Whiteside had seen my lumpy bollock, the only person to see it other than my brother, Jim. What else could there be that would be anywhere near as embarrassing? I thought I may as well ask the $64 000 question.
“Do you think it’s cancerous?”
I fixed him a glance. I was looking for Dr.Whiteside to shift uncomfortably in his chair or develop a nervous tick, which I concluded would be a give away, but he did not flinch.
“That’s not something I can rule out at this stage, Richard. All I can tell you at this stage is that cancer is a possibility. What I will need to do, is write you a referral to go to see a consultant urologist.”
I was disappointed. I was expecting answers today.
“How quickly will I get to see the consultant?”
It had taken me months to get the nerve to go to the Doctor’s. Now I had managed it, I wanted to ride on this rare wave of bravery. I wanted to get to see the consultant as quickly as possible, get the whole humiliating period out of the way as fast as I could. Dr.Whiteside twiddled with his dicky bow.
“Richard, given your age, the fact that a number of months have elapsed since the lump came to your attention and the very natural concerns I appreciate you must have. I will get a letter written up today for the consultant urologist and will ensure it is marked as urgent. Within a couple of weeks, you will be notified of your appointment date.”
Standing up, I was going to reach across and shake his hand but I could not recall whether Mum had done that and not knowing if it was the done thing or not, I awkwardly extended my arm and then pulled it back about halfway into the stretch.
“OK. Thanks Doctor! Thanks very much!”
I was out of there in a flash. My second one within minutes. I felt relieved that I had at last made my first step towards a diagnosis, but was annoyed with myself for not challenging Dr.Whiteside with regards to the appointment date. OK, I would get a date within a fortnight, but that date could be 1999 for all I knew. I suppose I just had to accept it would be dealt with as quickly as the urologist could manage. From then on, it would be “Phase Two” - rather than worrying about what it could be, I would be dealing with cold, hard facts. My anxiety could then be over or my concern may be multiplied as I would be dealing with what the lump actually was, not what it could be, what it was. In life, there is nothing scarier than the things you cannot change. I decided, on my way home from the Doctor’s surgery, that although I could not change the diagnosis, at least I could change how I was dealing with the lump. Bottling things up, not sharing my fears and worries with Kelly, was surely the wrong way forward. I was off to the Everton-Norwich FA Cup Semi Final the following morning, which would provide a twenty four hour distraction, but had arranged to see Kelly on Sunday. I would break the news to her then. Little did she know change was coming.
On Sunday, Kelly would discover the person she thought was perfect was anything but, his body was malfunctioning and his mind was struggling to cope. I was scared what this would do to her. As far as sixteen year old girls go, Kelly was pretty street wise but it was a big thing for anyone having a boyfriend with cancer, if that’s what it was or at the very least some sort of cyst on his privates. For my own sanity though, I needed to share this with someone, someone other than Jim, who was a better brother these days but still not exactly the perfect confidant. I needed to unburden myself. I’ll tell her Sunday, I told myself. I’ll tell her Sunday, no matter what.
Jemma
After I was 100% certain Vomit Breath was dead, I gave myself ten minutes before ringing the emergency services. The first thing I did, was make my way through to the kitchen to see what Vomit Breath had left behind. Unsurprisingly, there were several cans of special strength lager scattered around the work surfaces and a topless vodka bottle on the kitchen table alongside a lipstick marked crystal glass. Not a huge amount of the vodka had been drunk, it was a half-bottle and three quarters still remained, so I put on some oven gloves, picked the bottle up, poured the majority of it down the sink and then returned it to the table. Mum was a drinker, a massive one, but I just needed to emphasise the point to anyone from the emergency services who may be heading round.
I then went back upstairs to see Kelly. The sound of sobs could be heard before I climbed a stair. Some tough love was called for here, otherwise Kelly was digging a big hole for herself, a big hole that led directly into a prison cell.
As I went into her room, she was sat upright on her bed sniffing and sobbing.
“I’m a murderer Jemma! Nothing can ever change that now! For the rest of my life, whatever happens, I will always be a murderer.”
I didn’t say a word. I just walked over to Kelly and slapped her face. I was careful not to slap her too hard, as the last thing I wanted was Kelly to have a hand print on her face when the ambulance arrived, but hard enough to sting.
“Oww!! What are you playing at Jemma! That hurt!”
“Kelly, do you want to go to jail?”
“Of course I don’t! But I will!”
“Wh
at for?”
“Murder. We’ve both just seen me kill our mother.”
“I didn’t see a thing, Kelly.”
“Yes, you did!”
“No, Kelly, I didn’t. I heard a thud, which woke me up. I went to investigate and that was when I saw Mum, at the bottom of the stairs, in a heap. I didn’t see a thing.”
“Jemma, they won’t believe us!”
I grabbed Kelly. Not aggressively. I just brought her towards me, stressing a point.
“Kelly, remember what I said before. You didn’t even hear anything, did you? You’re a heavy sleeper. The first thing you knew about all this was when the paramedic woke you up.”
Kelly did not look convinced. She began to shiver and when she spoke her voice was frail.
“Jemma, if we lie about this, we’ll only make more trouble for ourselves. Maybe it’ll be like you said before to Mum. Maybe if we tell them how she used to beat you up and make our lives a misery and explain that I just ran at her impulsively, to protect you from another beating, maybe then I won’t go to jail for too long.”
“Kelly, shut up! Our future is dependent on you. I’m no genius, I’m never going to get a fancy job that pays a load of money…”
Kelly interrupted,
“You’ve got a good job in the bank.”
“I know but where’s that going to take us? If I’m lucky in a few years time I might get a supervisors job, but that won’t make us a fortune.”
“We’ll be OK.”
“Kelly, I don’t just want us to be OK. You are the brains in this family. You could be anything. You could be a Doctor, a Dentist, a vet, a surgeon, a scientist, you could be whatever you want to be. The world is your oyster. Do you think it will still be your oyster after a couple of years in a young offenders institute? Of course it won’t! So let me say this one last time. I heard a thud which woke me up. You slept through. We went to bed at 11.30, after a night in together. OK?”