by Wade, Calvin
Saturday June 8th 1996 was Derby Day at Epsom. The ‘Derby’ was the big race of the flat racing season. The top three year old horses would race over one and a half miles of the undulating Epsom Downs. I felt lucky that morning, I had yet to pick my horse but thought I was due a big winner and there was no better time to get it than Derby Day. I had woken early that day with sunlight creeping through the curtains and the birds singing their same old songs. It required less sneaking on a Saturday morning to collect the mail, as Dot used to like a lie in at weekends.
Just after seven, I was looking out the landing window and I saw Tom arriving at the bottom of the road, through the passageway that linked our road to the main road. I quickly crept down to the porch and as he parked his bike up, I followed my normal routine, unlocking the door and quietly going out to meet him halfway down the drive.
“Morning, Charlie!” Tom said cheerily, “got your Derby horse picked?”
“Not yet,” I responded, taking a bundle of mail off him, some looking, as usual, like threatening letters,
“I’m waiting for my Racing Post to arrive, the kid who brings it isn’t an early bird like you!”
“I was going to ask you for a tip!”
“Well, Tom, the only tip I can give you is not to bet! It’s a mug’s game!”
“Doesn’t stop you!” he said laughing and climbing back on his bike before cycling away.
I turned back around with my body pointed back towards our front door, with my head down, examining the post, seeing what damage was being inflicted today. Credit card bill - that’s for me! Gas bill - mine! Personal loan company – missed payment letter - I’ll have that! Catalogue company – Dot’s. Junk mail - Dot’s. Then there was a handwritten letter, who would write us a letter? Hang on, it wasn’t addressed to us, it was addressed to our Richie - Dot could have that too, she would remember to pass that on to him. I stuffed the bills in a back pocket of my jeans and was carrying Dot’s letters in my hands, when I heard a voice.
“Good morning, Mr. Billingham! And what a lovely morning it is for a drive! Perhaps you’d like to join us?”
Without turning, I looked over my shoulder. Standing there, outside a big, black limousine, were two of Kiffer’s henchmen, Kevin, who was known as ‘The Smirking Giant’ and Bobby who was known as ‘Muscles’. I turned around to face them. It was ‘The Smirking Giant’ that addressed me, in his chirpy Wirral tones. He was only in his late twenties but had gone to work for Kiffer after a failed attempt at professional kickboxing. He was allegedly given his nickname because no matter what nasty job Kiffer gave him, torturing people, killing people, disposing of bodies, he did it with a smile all over his face. The ‘Giant’ bit was self-explanatory, he must have been almost seven foot tall. My dealings with him had always been pleasant but I had a feeling in my gut that this was about to change.
“Good morning, Kevin! I’m just off in to get dressed, I’m heading out soon, tell Simon I’ll be around later with his money!”
I turned my head back, ready to walk slowly towards the door, at a pace that betrayed my internal panic, but Kevin’s next words made me give up the ghost.
“No problem, Charlie! I need the money now though. Where do you suggest we go to get it, your Helen’s or your Caroline’s?”
“Kevin, let’s not do this here,” I was whispering loudly so Kevin could hear me but the neighbours couldn’t. I kept imagining Dot was also staring outside from the front bedroom window.
“Charlie, get in the car, mate.”
“Not now, Kevin, I need to nip into Ormskirk, go to the Building Society to get Simon his money.”
“That’s good,” Kevin replied, “we’ll give you a lift.”
“It’s too early now.”
“Charlie, we’re not in a rush mate. Kiffer wants his money.”
Time to come clean.
“Kev, I don’t have it.”
“I know that, Charlie. Get in the car!”
Shit! Without another word, I stuffed the letters meant for Dot into my back pocket, walked down the path and climbed into the limousine. Kevin followed me in, on the kerbside of the limo, ‘Muscles’ entered from the roadside. To no great surprise, I was confronted by the smiling face of Kiffer, looking smarter than usual, cleanly shaven and wearing a white, Ralph Lauren shirt and black trousers.
“Morning, Charlie! I hate early mornings, always seem to put me in a bad mood. Early mornings and misplaced trust - a lethal combination.”
The engine started and the limousine moved away. I remember looking back at my house, through the blacked out windows, wondering whether I would ever return or whether that would be my final image of our family home. I tried to look calmer than I felt. I had a horrible feeling I was now on my way on to a ‘Missing Persons’ list, destined to be found ten years later, in a shallow grave, by a man walking his dog in remote woodland.
Richie
“We think he’s a vampire, Mum, he only seems to stay awake when it’s dark outside!”
Jamie was flat out in his pushchair. Jemma had taken Melissa to Manchester Opera House to see some Australian band that are on children’s TV, catering purely for pre-school kids, so Jamie was my responsibility for the day. We had moved back to the North West from Hucknall, when Melissa was six months old, as my old Regional Manager from my days in Maghull had offered me a new Manager’s role in Wigan. The branch itself was no bigger than the ones I’d worked in before, but I was also given the authority to oversee seven agencies in the Lancashire area. It was more money, a better car and a far superior bonus package, so there was no decision to be made. We loved Hucknall but it was time to head home! We bought a three bedroomed, new build detached house in Standish near Wigan, only thirty minutes from Manchester and twenty minutes from Ormskirk. Thus, whenever I was responsible for looking after Jamie or Melissa or both of them, without Jemma, I tended to take them to my Mum’s! On this Sunday morning, Mum and I had taken Jamie to the park, bought him a “99” from the ice cream man and then taken photos of him after he smeared it all over his face! On the “push” back to Mum’s, he had fallen asleep, so once we were back, Mum had made us both a coffee and we were able to enjoy a rare chat that did not have to be interspersed with baby talk every couple of sentences.
“It’s your fault he’s a bad sleeper,” Mum was saying, “you were a nightmare when you were a child! Often I would come to bed at eleven o’clock when you were three or four and James would be flat out, yet you would still be up, playing with your Space 1999 toys or playing football with your soldiers! You only started sleeping properly when you were a teenager, probably all the masturbation wore you out!”
“Mother!”
“Well, that’s what teenage boys do, is it not?”
“I didn’t, I was a good, clean boy!”
“I remember your sheets telling a different story!”
“Mum, how did you manage to get on to teenage boys sexual habits? I was talking about sleep deprivation! Jamie’s been really hard work. A lack of sleep is not an aid to a happy marriage.”
Mum looked concerned
“You and Jemma are OK though, aren’t you?”
“Jemma and I? Oh yes, we’re fine. We could just do with a bit more sleep, that’s all.”
“Well, if you ever need a babysitter to take them both over night, you only need to ask.”
“I’m sure we will take you up on that soon. It’s just that Jemma hasn’t wanted to burden you with Jamie, because he doesn’t sleep for longer than a couple of hours at a time.”
“Do you know what Jemma’s problem is? She sometimes thinks too much about other people’s problems and not enough about her own. I have to admit, when you first told me that you and Jemma were going to get married, your father and I had our reservations, only because of all that stuff with her Mum, but we were wrong, Richie, she’s a fine wife and a wonderful mother to your children. You are very lucky to have her.”
“I know, Mum, I know.”
I said it, but at that time, I was not feeling particularly lucky. People have a tendency to do that. They make judgements on your marriage from how it appears from the outside. Jemma was great with the kids, tolerated my mother and father’s foibles very well, so from Mum and Dad’s perspective, she was near perfect. They were oblivious to how things were behind closed doors. Jemma and I had a limited sex life, spent a fraction of our lives together and seemed to bicker constantly when we did share a room. Marriage problems are like cycling on hills, it’s very easy to go downhill, but once you hit the bottom, it’s an awful lot harder to get back up. I did not want to burden Mum with all this, for the time being at last, I was happy for her to think that everything in the garden was thornless.
“What about things with you, love? That testicle of yours OK?” Jemma and Mum had a similar way with words, although Mum’s openness was due to a lack of tact and diplomacy, Jemma was just blunt. Having had five years of follow-ups at the hospital, following my testicular cancer, I had been given a clean bill of health and very rarely thought about my prosthetic friend these days.
“It’s fine, Mum. Everything is in working order.”
“I check your Dad’s balls every few weeks, but they seem to be the same little hairy things they’ve always been. They’re not growing or anything.”
“Good, although Dad is probably more prone to prostate cancer these days, Mum. You should be putting on the rubber gloves and shoving a finger up his back passage as well!”
“Bloody hell, Richie and you say I’m tactless! I’ll leave that to the Doctor, my days of shoving a finger up your Dad’s back passage are well behind me!”
“Too much information, Mum!”
“You started it! Anyway, whilst we we’re talking about privates, has Jemma not persuaded you to go to the testicular barbers yet, Richie?”
“To trim my pubes?”
“Don’t be so ridiculous! You know exactly what I mean! For the snip!”
My Mum did a cutting sign with two of her fingers.
“She hasn’t persuaded me yet! That production line is still in working order. As you know, I was forced to close one of the factories a number of years ago and cut the work force in half, but the other little guys are still beavering away!”
The double entendre was intended, my Mum and I shared a warped sense of humour.
“Still churning them out, eh?”
I laughed.
“I am not sure many men have such detailed conversations with their mothers!”
Mum laughed too.
“Because they are not lucky enough to have a mother like me!”
“I suppose not!”
“Do you want a scone, love? I made them this morning!”
“That’d be nice!”
“Butter and jam?”
“Yes, please. I’ll just nip to your loo before I eat.”
Mum stood up to go and make the scones, I followed her out the room to head to the loo. Before I went, I nipped into the porch to check on Jamie who was flat out in his pushchair, looking like butter wouldn’t melt. I then headed upstairs to Mum and Dad’s main bathroom, there was a downstairs toilet, but there was a low ceiling in there and I tended to forget post-pee, so the upstairs bathroom was a safer option.
Every time I went back to Mum and Dad’s, for nostalgic reasons, I always looked into the old bedroom that I used to share with Jim. Dad now used it as an office, but he had never got round to having a proper clear out, so a lot of our stuff was still there. I peered in and then decided, given I wasn’t too desperate for a wee, that I would have a little look around whilst Dad was out. I sat at his desk, he was a right scruffy bugger, he had work papers everywhere. All the top drawers were full of Dad’s work stuff, but a lot of mine and Jim’s stuff was stuffed into the bottom drawers, so I pulled one or two open and started to look through.
One drawer was full of my old Roy of the Rovers comics. When I was seven, I had announced to Mum and Dad that I no longer wanted the Beano every week, but instead wanted Roy Of The Rovers. I have no idea what happened to my copies of the Beano but once I started receiving the ‘Roy Of The Rovers’, I would not throw any away. This hoarding has continued from that day forward, after Roy of The Rovers, it was Shoot, then Record Mirror and then Q! As I opened the drawer, the top copy was the classic issue where Melchester Rovers emulated Dallas and Roy was shot by Elton Blake. The front cover had a black border, hinting at the possibility of Roy dying and ‘Get Well’ wishes were inside from many stars of the day, including Eric Morecambe. I was momentarily excited that this issue could be worth a few quid until I remembered that I had taken the middle pages out to blue tack the poster of the footballer in the middle on to my bedroom wall. I don’t even remember which footballer it was, I did that every week, so I had four years worth of ‘Roy Of The Rovers’ comics all with the middle four pages missing!
I opened a second drawer. It was full of old photographs. I started to flick through them, they were stereotypical family albums of the seventies and eighties, mainly containing photos of Helen, Caroline, Jim and I with bad haircuts and dodgy clothing. Someone had arranged them in some sort of chronological order, so there were the baby photos, then the naked paddling pool shots, then the children’s party photos with the magicians, Jimco and Fredco and then the teenage year shots, Helen playing ‘Simon & Garfunkel’ on her ‘Frisco Disco’, Caroline crimping her hair, Jim looking like the bastard child of Johnny Cash and me looking like I thought a Kappa kagool was the coolest fashion item ever invented. I laughed when I saw one photo of Caroline with a mass of blonde curls, cuddling up to a very youthful Nick Birch. That was a collector’s item, as Caroline had been with Donna, her girlfriend for years. By this point, Caroline had still not officially ‘outed’ herself to Mum and Dad, which was ridiculous, as Mum and Dad had long since guessed and always put the pair of them in a double bed when they came over from Yorkshire to stay.
A third drawer was full of school reports. Jim and Helen’s reports were at the front, I presumed this was because they were the academic ones and would have had the better reports. The ‘lesser’ reports of mine and Caroline’s were probably hidden away at the back. I pulled the drawer out as far as it could go, as I did so, I could see something behind the drawer, it seemed to be some post that had fallen down the back of the drawer, probably because at some point the drawer had been overfilled. The first thing that struck me was that the postal items seemed to have blood on them. I put my arm in, behind the drawer and felt around, there seemed to be quite a few of them so I pulled them all out, one by one. It was crumpled old post. There were thick droplets of blood on each of them, I thought it was all junk mail at first, but as I looked at them individually, I discovered some were old, opened bills and reminder letters, addressed to Dad. The very last one I came to, was in a white envelope, handwritten and I squinted to make out the name behind the blood, it was addressed to me. As soon as I realised it was addressed to me, my heart started pounding, as I knew who it was from. I was about to open it when I heard a shout from downstairs,
“Richie, what’s taking so long? Are you having a poo? I’ve made you another coffee, it’ll go cold!”
“I’ll be down in a sec, Mum,” I yelled back, “I’m just having a root around my old room.”
“Tidy it up whilst you’re in there!” Mum shouted, “it’s a pig sty, but your father doesn’t allow me to clean his precious office! It’s the one room in the house that is always a mess!”
I was about to tear open my letter and then I stopped myself. I needed to get things straight in my head first, wanted to understand who knew what, so I gathered up all the bloodied post and took it straight downstairs. I was bursting for a wee by now, but it could wait.
Mum was already back in the lounge.
“Have your coffee, Richie, it’ll be ready to drink.”
I put the letters down on the coffee table in front of Mum. I felt like a detective, presenting the evidence to an accomplice to a murder
to gauge her reaction.
“Mum, what are these?”
Mum leaned forward to take a closer look.
“They’re letters. They’ve got blood on Richie! Are you OK?”
“It’s not my blood! What are they?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“They’re letters and bills from 1996,” I picked up the one in the white envelope, “this one is addressed to me, it’s from Kelly.”
Mum took the envelope out of my hands and studied it.
“How do you know it’s from Kelly, if it isn’t open?”
“It’s her writing.”
Mum passed it back to me. I could tell she really wanted me to open it there and then, but Mum was a right old nosey parker, always had been and now I had established she knew nothing about it, I wanted to open it in private.
“Open it then!”
“I will, Mum. Just not now.”
Mum understood.
“You mean, not whilst your interfering mother is around! I know! What are these others?”
Mum began to pick up each piece of junk mail and then each bill. She studied the opened ones carefully.
“These are final reminders, Richie! I don’t understand, your father always says we don’t have any money worries.”
“Did you have any in 1996?”
“Not that I know of. It doesn’t make sense, some of these bills are from credit card companies that I still use, as a second card on your father’s account.”
I didn’t understand what Mum meant.
“So?”
“Well, if the bills weren’t paid, they wouldn’t let us carry on using the cards, surely?”
“Maybe it was a temporary problem back in 1996,” I said, “maybe Dad sorted it.”
Mum seemed flabbergasted by this whole revelation. I was less so. I knew Dad had borrowed money off ‘Kiffer’ in the past. Men with money do not borrow from loan sharks like ‘Kiffer’.
“Maybe”.
I could tell Mum was furious. I knew Dad was going to walk straight into a row when he came home. Mum placed everything back on the coffee table, so I picked them up again and started sifting through them, trying to make some sense out of this mystery.