Forever Is Over

by Wade, Calvin

  Women, as a sex, tend to say, we are attracted to a man’s sense of humour more than anything else, but I don’t think my local thirty stone binman is inundated with offers from skinny beauties just because he knows a few good jokes. As a rule, we like looks, we like power, we like confidence and a sense of humour is a bonus. Richie had the looks, he had no power whatsoever but he had a quiet confidence and a dry sense of humour, so three out of four was pretty good. After all, I had been out with Ray and the only one of those four he had really was power!

  The first time Richie came in, he caused a major stir amongst all the female population of Risley, even some of the lesbians said he was so sexy he could turn them straight, as a one-off anyway!

  “Now there’s a mystery, who would I rather fuck, the sleeping assassin or her boyfriend?” said Julie, a crackhead streetwalker who was so ugly I’d have expected her punters would have wanted paying.

  “He’s not my boyfriend, Julie!”

  “Why not love? Like the taste of muff, do you? If you ever want a ladies tongue between your thighs, pretty girl, you know where I am!”

  “Piss off, Julie!”

  “Why, what will you do if I don’t? Push me down the stairs? I hear you’ve got form for that! Poor Mummy!”

  Richie told me he had lost contact with Kelly and I explained to him that she had rung our house on the day of my arrest and Tut had told her not to come home, because she would be arrested if she did, as I had been. Richie sat in stunned silence as I related the story to him, then admitted he was flabbergasted that she had not come back from Rotterdam, despite any consequences, as soon as she knew I had been arrested. It did not shock me. Kelly had run off in the first place because she was petrified of going to jail, so there was no way she was going to come back, own up and condemn herself to a life in prison. I thought Richie’s view probably stemmed from the fact he thought she would return as a supportive sister not knowing that she had committed the crime.

  As time passed, Richie would make regular visits, normally visiting every four to six weeks. I grew to have mixed feelings about Richie coming to Risley. On the one hand, each time he visited, he would break the news that there remained no contact with Kelly, so as time went on, I began to view him more and more as a single man. This was the good news, the positive aspect to his visit. I felt sad for him that Kelly had not at least phoned, but I had found myself thinking more and more about him and was totally aware that my feelings for him were deepening. If Kelly returned though, even if I was released, I knew my chances were non-existent.

  On the other hand, I questioned why I was seeking this relationship. Could any relationship be more doomed to failure than one between Richie and me? He had dated my sister, who would never forgive me if I subsequently went out with him, he also had testicular cancer and here was I, in prison awaiting trial for murder, my hair full of nits, skeletal frame and generally looking like a bag of shite! Why did I even entertain the idea of us getting together?

  Still, on balance, despite me looking uglier than the offspring of John Merrick and a sister of Cinderella, I was happy for Richie to visit me. We had never really been friends. Until I had left school and started at the bank, I had been a nightmare child really and Richie had not needed a friend like me. Once he had spilled my baked potato though, things had changed! We had clung on to each other that day like lifelong friends and I for one, was hoping that’s what we would become. At the very least, I wanted us to become lifelong friends. I could not help Richie through his illness though from the insides of a prison cell, so that became the million and first reason why I wanted to get out of there.

  The court case was to take place in Preston Crown Court. Twelve people on a jury would decide the future direction of my life. If I was found guilty, they would be getting things horribly wrong, but those twelve men and women had not been there when Vomit Breath had died, not witnessed the scene and would not be receiving the accurate version of events from the only eyewitness. If they sent me to jail, I could not blame them, I was just hoping my brief would be able to muddy the waters enough for the jury to have an element of doubt and ultimately find me innocent. If they did find me guilty, they had to decide whether it was pre-meditated, as I also faced a charge of manslaughter.

  On Richie’s final visit to Risley before the trial, he was surprised to find me in jovial spirits.

  “Does nothing phase you?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, here you are in this dirty, stinking hellhole of a place, awaiting trial for murder, surrounded by some of the toughest looking women I have ever had the misfortune to lay my eyes on, yet you’re in a good mood! I don’t get it! Does it not bother you being in here?”

  “Of course it bothers me, Richie! There’s just not a great deal I can do about it.”

  “Have you cried since you came in here?”

  “No.”

  “Have you cried since your Mum died?”

  “With relief, perhaps!”

  Richie’s face looked a picture. Stunned was not the word! I had grown up a lot since leaving school, but I still enjoyed having the propensity to shock.

  “Jemma! Don’t let the guards hear you say that!”

  “They can hear what they like, Richie! I didn’t like Vomit Breath, in fact, I hated the bones of her, but that doesn’t mean I killed her. I didn’t, I swear I didn’t!”

  “Jemma, it’s not me that you have to persuade., it’s the twelve people on the jury.”

  “But do you believe me, Richie?”

  It was important to me to hear that he did. I was slowly falling in love with this man and his response would either apply more weight on the accelerator or shift everything into reverse. I might have learnt to be tough having spent my whole life living with Vomit Breath, but I was not a cold blooded killer. If Richie thought I was, I had him all wrong.

  Richie stared into the depths of my eyes.

  “Jemma, I have never thought for one second that you killed your Mum.”

  Fantastic!

  “Why not?”

  Life had taught me to be cynical. I was not just going to accept that answer on its merits. I needed to ask. Richie shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He paused before his response. I was nervous. Would his answer allow me to believe that he would have faith in me under any circumstances? It was only once Richie spoke that reality bit. He spoke in a whisper. A barely audible whisper.

  “Because I know who did. Jemma. We both know who did.”

  Richie

  It was pouring down. July and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, not one you could see anyway, as they all just mingled into one massive, grey sheet. The sky looked like it was sobbing heartily, leaving puddles everywhere. I was sat on a bench on the “Sunny Road”, in a t-shirt, kagool, trainers and shorts. The road was not living up to its name! It was midday on the 4th July, but I was not even supposed to have been there on a rainy day. All bets were off on a rainy day. I had taken a day’s holiday off work for this too and in total, I only had a miserly fifteen days a year to take! I knew before I arrived that it was highly unlikely that Kelly would turn up, but I felt duty bound to visit, like putting flowers on a grave, no-one that matters knows you’ve done it, but you feel better inside knowing that you did.

  A week had passed since I had last spoken to Kelly. My mind had jumped to hundreds of conclusions in those seven days - she had been mugged in Rotterdam and was now stranded in Holland with no money, she had somehow heard that Jemma had been arrested so had confessed to the murder and was now in some holding cell awaiting paperwork to ship her over to Britain or maybe she had been picked up by a Dutch pimp looking for pretty, fresh faced young girls, drugged up and forced to work in Amsterdam’s notorious red light district.

  Something must have happened, I knew that much. Since we had started “going out”, we had spoken every day, without fail. Now, seven days had passed and Kelly had not tried to contact me at all. Another conclusion I played with,
was that she had met someone new. I was 99% sure it was too early for that, but for all I knew, some fine looking Dutch bloke or American backpacker, could have swept her off her feet. She could be in some pot café now, rolling a joint with Ruud or Marco or Tyler or Brandon. Although I had kept telling myself, over and over, that Kelly was not going to show, I kept persuading myself to wait, just in case she arrived just after I left and then castigated me later for not loving her enough to stick around. Three hours after I arrived, at two thirty in the afternoon, I knew with absolute certainty that Kelly would not be coming. Midday was the agreed time, it had long since passed. I headed home feeling like that place was now off limits, I would only ever go back with Kelly or on the 4th July. I was a stupid, sentimental old fool before my time! I liked being me though. I was Kelly Watkinson’s lover, no-one else in the world could say that, unless she was in Amsterdam taking guilders off drunken visitors to fuel her newly acquired heroin addiction or was in some five star hotel with Marco, who had suddenly found fortune since the last time my mind had created him. It was a nightmare, I needed to hear from her, just to put my mind at rest.

  As I trudged back from a wet and miserable “Sunny Road” with a damp bottom and a broken heart, I started running, running home just in case Kelly was phoning me right that minute. Just in case that two minute time saving could make all the difference between answering Kelly’s call and missing it.

  Once I arrived home, I begged the phone to ring but when it did it was Uncle Billy or Helen or one of Mum’s friends, it was never Kelly.

  Kelly did not phone that day, not that night, not that week, not that month, not that year. Kelly had gone. Eventually she would write, but when she did, a different Richie Billingham opened that letter. A married man. A father. A veteran of fighting battles. A man not so emotionally needy as that boy on the “Sunny Road”, no longer desperate for the return of his one true love. Is there such a thing as one true love? Was I destined to be with Kelly as I thought back then? All my teenage romantic notions were put to the test when that letter finally arrived and implored me to meet her again on the “Sunny Road”.

  Richie

  All six of us were sat around the dining room table. No boyfriends, no girlfriends, no aunties or uncles or grandparents, just Mum, Dad, Helen, Caroline, Jim and myself. It was a rarity. A rare opportunity not to be missed. Mum had arranged for us all to meet up, as she had concluded that we were not spending enough time together as a family.

  Helen had recently become engaged to her boyfriend, Tristan, a fellow Lancaster University graduate and was living down in Henley-on-Thames, with his parents, as they both looked for Graduate Trainee roles.

  Caroline had been spending less and less time in the house. She was working in H.Samuel in Ormskirk, but her weekends were spent in North Yorkshire at her mysterious new boyfriend, Don’s house. Unbeknown to the rest of the family, I knew a little bit more about “Don”, than they did. Don was in fact Donna! It transpired that Caroline’s boyfriend was a girlfriend. It was all hush hush. Donna was a student at Edge Hill College, in Ormskirk, on a teacher training course, but had returned to her home town of Boroughbridge for the summer. Caroline and Donna had met in the Golden Lion on a Monday night. Donna had been on a student pub crawl, Caroline had just been out for a few drinks with a couple of friends. Caroline told me she had always been “bi-curious” and once Donna approached her in the “Lion”, she knew almost immediately that her first same-sex relationship was about to begin.

  “Don’t tell Mum and Dad!” she demanded of me one night in July,

  “Dad would have a heart attack and I have no idea what Mum would do. Probably have a panic attack about telling Grandma!”

  After the revelation, I met Donna. From the start, we hit it off. She was only a small girl, slightly overweight with short bleach blonde hair and dark roots. She was reserved but had a dry wit similar to my own. Musically, she was into Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen, so if there was ever a hint of an uncomfortable silence, we could always fall back on music.

  Jim was still screwing his way around Ormskirk. I joked that he would have to move soon as there were not many single women he had not been with! I was shocked what confidence and perseverance could get you, as he was not blessed with the greatest of looks.

  The conversation that day was originally all about the events of the night before on the River Thames. A pleasure boat had been hit by a dredger and the boat, the Marchioness, had been sunk. The people on the boat had been on the River celebrating a birthday and it was uncertain how many people were still unaccounted for, but many of the hundred plus on board had drowned.

  “Those poor families!” Mum commented, “I don’t know how I would cope if something happened to any of you.”

  This comment made me shudder. I had already concluded, this was the time to break my news. It didn’t deter me, though. They needed to know and with my cancer battle about to begin in earnest, there was no way it could remain a secret.

  I let the meal pass in jovial fashion. Mum did her speciality starter (prawn cocktail) and speciality dessert (trifle) as well as a Roast Turkey main accompanied by all the trimmings, ham, stuffing, roast potatoes, sprouts, carrots, the works. It was only once dessert was finished that I decided to say my piece.

  Jim and Dad were sat next to each other, with me opposite Dad, Caroline opposite Jim and Helen and Mum at the two ends. Helen and Caroline were chatting about something, I couldn’t hear what as the conversation between Jim and Dad was far louder. Jim had never really been a sportsman, but he had followed in his father’s footsteps and developed a love for horse racing. They were arguing over which was the horse of the year.

  “It has to be Nashwan, Dad. Won the 2,000 Guineas, won the Derby. What more could it do to persuade you? Horse racing is all about speed and Nashwan’s top speed is not fast, it’s “whoosh!”

  Dad loved it that Jim was now into the horses. They suddenly had a common interest.

  “I know what you’re saying son, don’t get me wrong, I love Nashwan, that horse has won me a few quid, I can tell you. I backed it when when it won its maiden at Newbury, last August.”

  Mum interrupted.

  “I beg your pardon! I thought you didn’t bet any more!”

  “I don’t at the bookies, love, just the odd fiver against the guys at work, that’s all. If they say a horse won’t win and I say it will, I’ll bet them a couple of quid that I’m right. More often than not, I am!”

  “Well, you were wrong more often than not when you used to bet at the bookmakers, so I hope that’s all it is!”

  “It is love! It is!”

  When Mum wasn’t looking, Dad winked at Jim.

  “But the greatest horse of the year, Jim, has to be our Dessie! Just for pure emotion and the race that had the whole nation talking, not just the racing world, the whole nation, it was Desert Orchid’s win in the Gold Cup! When Yahoo took it up three out, I thought Dessie had no chance and even at the last, when Yahoo and Dessie were alongside each other, I didn’t think for a second that Dessie would outstay him! Yahoo’s a mudlark! Out stay him he did though, I wish I’d been at Cheltenham for that! It wasn’t just the highlight of the year, it’s up there as the highlight of the century!”

  “Up there with what?” Mum asked, “Your wedding and the birth of your four children?”

  “Absolutely,” Dad said with a smile, “sixth behind those five!”

  “My vote’s still with Nashwan.” Jim said.

  “Come off it, Jim! I’ve got Dessies win on video, after tea, I’ll put it on!”

  “His name is James.” Mum angrily stated.

  “Yours is Dorothy. We call you, Dot. Name’s get shortened, love. No point fretting about that. You don’t mind our Richard, being called Richie”

  “I just don’t like the name, Jim. It’s common! If I’d have known our James would get called Jim, I’d have called him something else.”

  “Like what, Dot?”


  “Like William.”

  “He’d have got called Bill then, or Willie, like Nashwan’s winning jockey, Willie Carson!”

  Horses! They had been the reason why Jim had always had to wear my hand-me-downs as we had grown up and yet he was still prepared to go down that wallet emptying route. Right, the four legged friend debate was obviously finishing, this was my cue.

  “Dad, before you retire to the lounge to watch Desert Orchid,” I began, “there’s something I want to say.”

  You would expect a bit of hush. What you expected and what you got from my family tended to differ.

  “Listen up everyone, Richie’s going to tell us he’s pregnant!”

  Dad joked in that ‘I’m a Dad so I’m automatically not funny’ kind of way.

  “No, that’s not possible, Kelly’s not around to provide the sperm!”

  Caroline added.

  “Maybe she froze the sperm and sent it over in a freezing test tube from the Bermuda triangle!” Helen added.

  My family had found Kelly’s disappearance concerning at first, but after a while, they had just seen it as an opportunity to make fun of me. They all continued taking pot shots. Well, the three of them did anyway. Mum didn’t because Mum wasn’t the type to poke fun at anyone, especially one of her sons, and Jim didn’t join in either. Under normal circumstances, Jim would have been there, handing the stick out with the rest of them, but not this time. This time, he had a faint awareness of my situation, so he refrained from joining in. In fact, he did the opposite. He quietened everybody down.