Forever Is Over

by Wade, Calvin

  “What have you been doing then?”

  “Talking to Richie Billingham.”

  “About me?”

  “No, about me actually. He’s taking me out.”

  “Out where?”

  “On a date.”

  “Oh!”

  “Did you not see the pair of us staring at you a minute ago like you were a zoo animal?”

  “No!”

  “Why does that not surprise me?”

  “Hang on”, I said, “did you say you were going on a date with Richie?”

  “Yes. Next Saturday!”

  Kelly was too young to be going on dates, especially with lads my age, but I was drunk and she felt like the only friend I had in the world at that moment, so I concluded I would have to postpone my lecture for now.

  “Kelly, do you think there’s somewhere I can go to lie down?”

  “Jemma, if you are feeling as bad as you look, do you not think we should just get a taxi home? I’ll go and find Amy and tell her we need to go.”

  “No, no, not a taxi! If I went on those back roads to Ormskirk now, I’d be sick.” “Let’s go outside then. The fresh air will do you good.”

  “OK. If I can get outside.”

  I stood up. I tried to keep my eyes focused on my feet so I could manage one step in front of the other. Kelly lead the way, opening the front door and then steering me to the end of the path, past a few necking couples and then on to a sheltered bus stop. It had now become a pleasant night with a breeze that eased my alcohol induced illness slightly. There was a wooden bench that ran around the perimeter of the shelter. Kelly sat down.

  “What is it about us and bus shelters tonight?” she asked rhetorically.

  I attempted to park my backside on that bench too but I as I slid drunkenly down, I missed the bench completely and my bum hit the concrete slabs below.

  “Ow!”

  “Jemma!” she laughed a little, “are you OK, honey?”

  She picked me up and positioned me carefully on the bench.

  “How weird is this? I’m used to looking after Mum when she’s off her face, but not you!”

  “I’m so sorry, Kelly! I should be looking after you!”

  “Jemma, I’m fine, I don’t need looking after.”

  I was drunk, I couldn’t help saying what I thought.

  ”You might do soon though.”

  “Why?”

  “If you start dating Richie Billingham.”

  “What’s wrong with Richie Billingham?”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I don’t really know him. I just know he’s sixteen and sixteen year old lads are only after one thing.”

  Kelly sort of half laughed, half snorted.

  “Are you my Dad?”

  “What?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just something Richie said earlier. Anyway, he’s not sixteen, he’s fifteen and next month I’m fourteen.”

  “Just be careful.”

  “Jemma, now is not a good time for you to be giving me advice! You look like a beardless Oliver Reed! How can I take advice off you when you can’t even plant your bum on a seat in a bus stop properly?”

  “I won’t mention it again. Just remember I told you to be careful.”

  We were silent for a while. Kelly was probably lost in thought, she was the deep thinker and I was quiet because I was now so drunk, I could not manage to string a word, let alone a sentence, together. The fresh air must have done some good though because after a period of quiet contemplation, I managed to say.

  “Take me back to the Birch’s now, Kel. I really do need to lie down.”

  That conversation was the last thing I remembered for an indeterminate period of time!

  I don’t remember walking back to the Birch’s, I don’t remember going in, I don’t remember Kelly sorting out somewhere for me to sleep, it is all a complete blank! The first thing I remember was being in a lovely, comfy bed, a double bed, in total darkness and then the door opening slightly, light and noise flooded in, followed by a male figure, I couldn’t see who, creeping in, closing the door behind them and then sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “How are you feeling?”

  I recognised the voice but the world was still spinning, albeit at a slower speed than before, so my brain failed to put a face to it.

  “A bit better, I think. How are you?”

  I was doing my Miss Marple bit, trying to get clues.

  “Pretty pissed!”

  Great! That ruled no-one out.

  “Do you mind if I lay down on the bed too? To be honest, Jemma, I’m hammered.”

  “No problem.”

  I felt him getting in under the sheet and continental quilt then I drifted back off to sleep……

  How long I then slept for, I have no idea, but it couldn’t have been long. I woke up and me and the mystery man were huddled together or at least I had snuggled into his back. He was definitely asleep. I edged myself away from him a little. I wanted to know who it was. I wanted to get up, go to the door, open it slightly so the light from the landing came in and I could see his face, as all I could see was a very vague silhouette. I sat up in bed, ready to get out of it but my body objected, I was still in a right state, my body parts had gone on strike and were failing to respond to commands from my brain. I gave him a nudge.

  “How are you doing over there?”

  He groaned a little and then replied,

  “I’m OK. Still drunk, but OK.”

  I was going to have to ask.

  “Who are you?”

  He laughed. I half recognised that laugh.

  “Do you not know?”

  “No! It’s bugging me, tell me!”

  He laughed again and then put a smooth hand on the side of my face and gently kissed me. I could have pulled away, struggled up to the door and the game would have been over, but to be honest, I didn’t want it to be. The whole issue I had with myself was that I felt unloved and unwanted. At the very least, I was wanted now, I kissed him back!

  “Not Billy McGregor then!” I thought mid-kiss.

  Billy was a crap kisser, clumsy and wet, this guy knew what he was doing. For all I knew, I could be kissing a frog, but in that moment, I didn’t care! As we kissed, my left hand moved down towards his crotch. He had jeans on (which again ruled no-one out!) and my fingers, although on the outside, knew that things were livening up down there. I felt stirrings of my own too.

  This was bizarre! As soon as we finished, I wanted to know who this was! We stopped kissing momentarily when our teeth clashed. No brace anyway, that ruled out a few geeks on the stairs!

  “Sorry!” he whispered.

  Whoever he was, he was really polite! I started kissing him again, throwing my tongue into his mouth with wild abandon! Funny how my body could do what it was told when it was getting some benefits! I couldn’t help thinking though, when I turned the light on, I was in for a massive disappointment! I put that to the back of my mind though and kept on kissing, when I put my hands in his hair, it felt silky and clean, which probably ruled out the whole Birch family and the majority of their friends. Then, when his hands worked their way round my back and expertly undid the clasp on my bra, I was relieved,

  “Its not James Billingham either! Thank God for that!” I thought.

  I was half-expecting it to be him!

  As our kissing marathon continued, one of his hands touched my left breast in a tender, inquisitive fashion. He circled my nipple which stood to attention like a guard at Buckingham Palace! The fact that I had no idea who I was sharing caresses with was driving me wild! My right hand, emboldened by the drink and circumstances, left the safety of the outside of his jeans and crept under his boxer shorts, through a forest of pubic hair and then on to his now erect penis. My fingers gripped it like a gaggle of pornographic fingerbobs!

  Mystery man responded in kind, his free hand working its way under my leather mini, on to my thigh, then moving my knickers to one side and awaitin
g an invitation in. Now was not a time to be prudish, my left hand took his and encouraged his fingers inside. I was wet, really wet. This felt so different to being with Billy McGregor, with Billy’s clumsy ways and dirty fingernails, I could be as dry as the Sahara!

  Clothes started coming off. My top, his top, his torso felt teenage boyish but attractively so, he was muscular, toned and hair free, then his jeans came off, followed by my mini- skirt. I wanted him inside me now, properly inside me. I made a move on his boxer shorts. He stopped me, which was unexpected.

  “Are you sure you want to be doing this?” he asked.

  Did boys ask questions like that?

  “Have you got any johnnies?” I asked.

  Not the most romantic question ever, but it needed asking.

  ”No! I only came in here for a lie down. Shall we stop?”

  Damn! I didn’t want that! This was all mysterious and sexual, it was now becoming sensible. I took the lead and kissed him again.

  “Just make sure you are out before the dynamite explodes!”

  After that, the passions were soon re-kindled. I eased his boxer shorts down, he tugged gently at my knickers, they had reached my knees when the door opened slightly.

  “Oops, sorry!”

  I looked up to see who our intruder was and just before the door shut again, I realised it was Amy.

  “Shit!” I thought, if my eyes hadn’t been drawn to the door, I could have seen who he was.

  This time the interruption didn’t upset our rhythm, I took my own knickers the remainder of the way down, then turned so he was below me, pressed his shoulders down and in the darkness slipped on top of him, shuffling around a little to allow him inside. I was expecting it to hurt, but it didn’t. He thrust into me a couple of times, my body tingled, then all of a sudden he stopped.

  “No Jemma! Stop! I’m so sorry, I need to get out of here!”

  He wriggled beneath me. Embarrassed I clambered off him and buried my head in the pillow, I heard him gathering his things together, putting his boxer shorts on and searching around in the darkness for the rest of his clothes. Within seconds, he had gathered them up and was out the room. Gone! I still didn’t know who the hell he was! Then a thought occurred to me. I didn’t know who he was, but whoever was outside the door, in the landing, would definitely know. It was my turn to scramble for clothes. Quickly finding my knickers and bra, I was ready to unmask “The Phantom Fucker”!

  “Amy!” I shouted. “Amy! Quickly come here!”

  Richie

  I was in serious trouble. Hiccupy burps were a bad sign. Hiccupy burps that rose up through your body, leaving you with a vomit-smelling halitosis, such as I had just had, were your body’s message that the last train to porcelain was just about to leave and would be depositing carrots, lager and the lining of your stomach at its final destination. My body was telling me that I needed to get on board quickly, as it was likely to be an express train, journey time five minutes and if I didn’t act quickly it would be re-routed and be the last train to “Carpetsville”. I ran up the stairs. The stairs that had been crammed full earlier were now almost empty, like supporters leaving five minutes before the end due to their team’s five-nil defeat, partygoers en masse had decided they had gleaned all they could from this party and it was now time to head home. Only the optimistic and the desperate, the drunks and the copulators remained. To my horror, the majority of them had gathered in an orderly queue outside the bathroom, no doubt to relieve their bladders, to return their lager from whence it came or to flush away their condoms filled with millions of children they would never have. My body did not empathise with their need to queue. In total, there must have been a dozen queuing and based on a turnaround time of three minutes per head, my stomach could not empty its contents for thirty six minutes, it had already conveyed the message that this was an impossibility. I needed to beg favours,

  “Excuse me, I’m not feeling too good, any chance I can go before you?”

  I pleaded in my drunken, but well mannered, style. I only remember three people in that queue, the rest are just faceless memories, but they no doubt took one look at me and deduced, for their personal safety, it would be wise to let me pass. Within a very short space of time, I had edged from the very back of the queue, to fourth in line to the throne, but once I laid eyes on the front three, I decided to retain a modicum of dignity and stop begging. The front three just happened to be Amy Perkins, Jemma Watkinson and Kelly. Bloody typical!

  Amy, Jemma and Kelly must have had a predicament of their own to contend with, with Jemma as the central character, as Amy and Kelly were floating around her like wasps around an unwrapped lollipop. All three of them were wittering away excitedly, especially Amy who was like Minnie Mouse on speed, at a bionic pace that only girls can manage.

  Luckily for me, this meant they were oblivious to the people around them. Only the backs of their beautifully maintained hair, faced towards me. This was great as I did not want Kelly to be introduced to the pale, edge of vomit, version of me. All of a sudden it came. No stationmaster blew his whistle. No starter said “On your marks, get set, go!”

  The vomit just rose up out of my body like a volcano or one of those waves at Rhyl Sun Centre that you were half-expecting but it still managed to knock you off your feet. I was immediately aware of the dangers, so I locked my jaw tight and put my hand to my mouth, but about a third of a pint of carrot-laden vomit managed to beat the trap door closing and squeezed through the gaps in my fingers, spraying gently on to the back of Jemma Watkinson’s hair, like a vile smelling lacquer. I watched in slow motion and awaited the turning of heads and the slap in the face, which was a particular concern as most of the vomit was still in my mouth. To my immense relief, Amy, Kelly and Jemma were too immersed in their own conversation to realise my sick was hanging off the back of Jemma’s hair like a bizarre collection of Christmas decorations inspired by “Carrots R Us”. Just as I was about to thank my lucky stars and focus on what to do with the litre of vomit that had filled my mouth, Kelly somehow sensed my presence and turned.

  “Oh! Hi Richie! I didn’t realise you were behind us! Are you OK? You look awful!”

  I nodded and attempted to smile with my eyes and with one of those grins you manage for school photos when you are seven and have no front teeth. The difference being when you are seven, you do not tend to swill a litre of vomit around your mouth.

  “Jemma’s a bit upset about something and she’s still not feeling great, so Amy and I are looking after her!”

  I put both my thumbs up at her.

  “Jemma’ll be even more upset when she sees the back of her hair”, I thought to myself, whilst cursing myself for looking so ridiculous.

  “What’s wrong with your voice?”

  Kelly asked, amused by my hand signals.

  I had no choice now. Someone had cruelly massacred Jemma Watkinson’s hair and the murder weapon was still within my mouth. It needed to be concealed in a better hiding place than this because, if it wasn’t, my guilt would soon be revealed to everyone. Not that anyone knew that a crime had been committed but it was only a matter of time.

  I had to be brave and swallow. I pulled a face, scrunched up my eyes and threw down what moments earlier I had thrown up. I gagged as the chunky bits caught in my oesophagus. Kelly was perplexed.

  “What’s going on with you, Richie? You look like you’ve just drunk a bottle of vinegar!”

  She obviously didn’t have a great sense of smell, either that or the lingering smell of vomit from the bathroom acted as a decoy. If only I’d swallowed a bottle of vinegar! I am sure that would have been far more pleasurable. Covering my mouth to hide the smell, I came out with some random nonsense,

  “I think I’m allergic to marijuana! It keeps catching in my throat!”

  “Really! I hate that smell too. My Mum and her mates tend to smoke it. It reeks! We’ve obviously got even more in common than I thought!”

  Kelly smiled at me, a radiant
smile, I smiled back sheepishly, hoping there was no carrot on my teeth. The smile was followed by the wonderful sound of the lock on the bathroom door moving back and forth, as its occupant tried to come out. After thirty seconds effort, Andrew Cullen emerged. To my relief, Amy, Kelly and Jemma all made a forward motion to the bathroom. They were all going in together.

  “Sorry about the stench girls,” Andrew apologised wholeheartedly, “it’s bitter, it plays havoc with my bowels!”

  The girls continued on their journey to the bathroom, shut the door behind them, locked it and literally a couple of seconds passed before there was a collective,

  “Eeuuuurrrrggggghhhhh!”

  Whether this sound was reflective of the gases extracted from Andrew Cullen’s backside hitting their nostrils or the discovery of vomit in Jemma Watkinson’s hair, I have no idea. Once the bathroom door closed, I decided I had chanced my luck enough for one evening. With the threat of vomit no longer imminent, I headed downstairs, bade a stoned looking Nick Birch farewell, did a D-Gas handshake with Joey and jumped into the taxi at the end of the drive that had been booked in the name of Watkinson.

  Karma soon catches up with you. I regurgitated my vomit over the taxi’s passenger window halfway home. I was so drunk I thought I had wound the window down! I hadn’t! On arriving home, I was escorted to my doorstep by a fuming taxi driver who demanded the full fare from my mother plus an additional £25 fee to cover cleaning and subsequent loss of trade as he was going to have to head home to find something to clear up the smell. As I was in such a drunken state, my Mum did not shout and scream at me that night, she just helped me up the stairs and put me to bed. The following morning, however, I had to sit in front of my Mum and Dad for an hour, as they had set up a kangaroo court in our kitchen and they introduced various family members, namely Jim and Caroline, to testify against me. I was sentenced to imprisonment within the family home for a month, only gaining parole to attend school. If I had been sentenced for the “boomerang vomit” and the damage incurred by the aforementioned taxi driver, I would not have had cause for complaint. I was however, found guilty of a crime I did not commit, due to falsification of evidence by my siblings.