by Wade, Calvin
Normally, when Vomit Breath felt she was being intellectually challenged, she resorted to violence. She liked her leopard spots and whilst there was air in her lungs, she would not be changing them. It came as no surprise, when she charged at me, grabbed me by the collar of my blouse and pressed me against the kitchen wall. My mind immediately flashed back to the time I did something similar to James Billingham at the Birch’s party and, despite my own predicament, I did not feel fear, I just felt consumed by guilt.
Vomit Breath’s nostrils flared like a dragon’s. ‘Puff The Magic Vomit Breath’.
“Listen you!” she growled, “I don’t know how much you get paid in your hoity-toity little job in the bank, with the Elephant Man’s grandson, but at a guess, it wouldn’t come anywhere fucking near paying for your sister’s education.”
“Let me try!” I pleaded.
“No, it’s ridiculous! You don’t know a thing about putting food into people’s mouths! I’m a single Mum, I’ve had eighteen years experience of having to scrimp and save to make sure you and Kelly can make the most of your lives. I can’t do it forever though! I’ve done it for eighteen years now. Eighteen fucking years! Enough is enough!”
This was a joke. Of all the words I could think of to describe Vomit Breath, I think I could use a high percentage of the dictionary before I got to altruistic. I sneered at her. Given that she had me backed up against a wall, what I said next was pretty foolish.
“That’s right! Eighteen fucking years! ‘Cos that’s what you have spent the last eighteen years doing, fucking any Tom, Dick or Harry who is stupid enough to share their seminal fluids with you! Don’t make me laugh about giving us opportunities to make the most of our lives! You’ve spent eighteen years trying to wangle every possible benefit you can possibly get your grubby little hands on, then you’ve pissed most of it away on booze and fags! Voles make better mothers than you and they eat their offspring! You’re a disgrace, an absolute disgrace!”
My only surprise was that she let me get through my whole speech before she hit me. As soon as I finished, Vomit Breath walloped me with a backhander that made my cheek throb like it had been stung by a wasp. My adrenalin was pumping through my veins though and there was no stopping me now.
“You hate the idea of her making something of her life, don’t you? Kelly’s everything you are not and you resent her for it. She’s intelligent, beautiful and warm hearted and you’re stupid, ugly and cold blooded, so you are desperate for Kelly to have as miserable an existence as you, but I’m not going to let that happen. I’m not! Do you hear me, I’m not! That girl is going to make something of her life and once she escapes from your clutches, you evil bitch of a woman, she won’t ever be back until we both trample the dirt down on your grave!”
Vomit Breath turned away from me as if she was going to walk out the kitchen door, but all of a sudden, she spun round on a sixpence, in a 180 degree turn that George Best would have been proud of, catching me full in the mouth with a forearmed smash. I slid down the wall like melted butter, then for good measure, Vomit Breath decided to take the George Best analogy to the next level by using my head as a football. She kept kicking, left foot then right, then left again. I covered my head in my hands, but made no attempt to stand back up, just allowing the barrage of blows to come my way. There was a reluctant acceptance on my part, but I had said what I needed to say and the resultant beating was worth it. After over a dozen kicks to the face and ribs, Vomit Breath stopped kicking, regurgitated some phlegm and spat it on to my snail shaped, curled up body. My nose and top lip bled heavily and both eyes ballooned. Vomit Breath gasped for breath. A slap, a punch and twenty seconds of relentless kicking takes a lot out of you when you are a chain smoking alcoholic.
“You’re an ungrateful bitch, Jemma! I’ve a good mind to kick you out, right here and now, but despite everything I’ve got too much heart to do it!”
Perhaps the fact that I now paid two-thirds of the rent, which included an element to repay the arrears Vomit Breath had accumulated, may also have been a contributory factor.
“You,” Vomit Breath now turned her attention to Kelly who had frozen rigid in fear throughout the argument and my subsequent beating, “you can forget any ideas of “A” levels, young lady. There’ll be no scroungers in this house, any more. As soon as you can, you get a fucking job. Do you hear me?”
Vomit Breath must have made herself exempt from this no scroungers ruling. Kelly did not say a word but nodded.
“Now pick your smart arsed sister up off the floor and get her cleaned up. Don’t make a mess of the fucking bathroom either, ‘cos if you do, I ain’t fucking tidying it!”
Vomit Breath strode towards the kitchen door, as she passed me, she sneered down at me like an upper class lady on her way to Royal Ascot, looking down at a pile of dog poo that obstructed her path. She could not resist aiming one last kick into my back, as I lay prostrate on the floor, dripping blood onto the kitchen linoleum.
“Kids,” she muttered to herself as she went in search of the dual comforts of fags and booze, “who’d fucking ‘ave ‘em!”
Jemma
Kelly and I just stood at the top of the stairs like pyjama clad mannequins. We looked at each other and then looked at Vomit Breath sprawled in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. My emotions were everywhere. Panic, fear and joy were all jumbled together, it even crossed my mind to throw a bucket of water down to see if the ‘Wicked Witch’ theory had any mileage. Panic ruled though. Since she had toppled down the stairs in a series of rolls and somersaults that Mary Lou Retton had spent ten years perfecting, there was silence. Vomit Breath had uttered none of her customary “f ” words, she did not moan or groan or even move, she just lay there, as still as a snowman on a wind free day. Kelly broke the stunned silence.
“Oh my god!” she exclaimed anxiously, then repeated it in a more drawn out fashion,
“OH…MY…GOD!”
“Quick!” I replied.
I don’t know what I wanted Kelly to do quickly or, for that matter, what I should be doing quickly, I just felt a sense of urgency should be demanded
“What do we do?” Kelly asked.
“I’ll go check on her.” I suggested, feeling a sense of duty once more to take the senior role.
“What should I do?” Kelly demanded.
“Go and get a mirror.”
“Why?” Kelly asked.
“Remember the Birch’s party. Caroline Billingham got a mirror to check if James was breathing. Go and get one!”
I ran down the stairs. My heart beat twice on every step. Vomit Breath was still out cold. Once I reached the bottom, I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be doing, she was face down, arse up. I had seen on television that you weren’t supposed to move people in case of paralysis, but it seemed wrong to leave her upside down. I leaned over Vomit Breath and gently rolled her over, so her head was facing up on my lap. There was blood, thick blood, oozing out of her nose and ears.
Kelly looked down from the top of the stairs, her hand mirror clutched tightly in her hand. She was in tears.
“I can’t come down there, Jemma! I can’t!”
I tried to be comforting. I spoke softly and slowly.
“Kelly, leave the mirror there at the top of the stairs. I will come and fetch it. What you need to do now is to go back to your room, get back into bed, go to sleep and pretend nothing has happened. Once you hear anyone arriving, turn over, let them come and wake you.”
Kelly was incredulous.
“You seriously expect me to go to sleep?”
“No, Kelly, but I need you to get back into bed. Once anyone arrives,
you need to at least pretend you have been fast asleep. Wait for them to wake you. As far as they know, you slept through everything. You’re a heavy sleeper, you didn’t hear an argument, you didn’t hear a thud, just ask them what’s happened. OK?”
I needed her to be strong for me. Kelly needed to keep everything together.
&n
bsp; “Jemma, I’m not leaving you on your own with her.”
“Kelly, you can’t just stand there procrastinating, either get back into bed or bring me that mirror now!”
The word “procrastinate” took me back to the halcyon days of Ormskirk Grammar School and English lessons with Miss Caldicott. I think we were in for more than a detention this time.
“Is she dead, Jemma?”
“I really don’t know, Kel. If you bring me that mirror, I’ll have a better idea.”
Kelly ran down. Whilst she had been deliberating, I had been frantically, but tactfully, searching for some sign of life from Vomit Breath, she didn’t appear to be breathing, so I checked for a pulse. I couldn’t find one. This did not unduly concern me as I often tried to find my own pulse, but couldn’t find that either. I searched for a heartbeat on her chest, nothing. By now, my own heart was beating like the hooves of Desert Orchid galloping on a concrete road. There had been so many times I had wished this woman dead, but given the circumstances, this time I wanted her alive. I would be quite happy if she died some time soon, in a pool of her own vomit, on some kerbside outside a nightclub, but just now I did not want her dead. Please not now. Kelly passed me the mirror.
“Shit!” I cursed.
“Does that mean she’s dead or alive?” Kelly pressed.
I suppose all things considered, it was a lose-lose situation. Damned if she’s dead, damned if she’s not. I didn’t say a word, I didn’t need to. I just looked up at Kelly. We were sisters. We had both had to endure this woman throughout our lives. Not any more though. Vomit Breath had died. No more drunken men pumping away at her groaning body at four in the morning. No more punishments for failing to conform to her wishes. No more insults. No more Vomit Breath. We should have been putting our red shoes on and partying on down with the ‘Munchkins’, and we would have done, we really would, if only the circumstances had been different. As Kelly and I stared at her lifeless body, we knew the nature of that evil woman’s death would haunt us for the rest of our lives.
Richie
Sleep deprivation had become a by-product of the lump. Every waking second its existence was there, somewhere in my sub-conscious mind. Masturbation, the dosage of choice of teenage male insomniacs, failed to assist. Even when I did manage to doze off, I would wake in the middle of the night and instinctively reach down to check the lump was still there, which it always was, like a scrotal Quasimodo. That was the first thing I would do upon waking. The second thing I would do, was panic.
I was almost eighteen years old. My mortality should not have been at the forefront of my mind, I should have been thinking about drunken nights out and sexual encounters. The only lumps that bothered me should have been squeezed out forcefully into bathroom mirrors. Before the lump, I thought I had a bit of depth to my character, but in reality I had as much depth as the shallow end of a toddlers swimming pool, but that began to change. I pondered the unanswerable questions,
“Where would I go when I died?”
“Would there be a heaven? If there was, had I done anything in my eighteen years to qualify for an entrance pass beyond the pearly gates?”
Two jumble sales for “Guide Dogs For The Blind” was the best I ever managed to come up with! What about Hell? Anything warrant my inclusion on the Devil’s guest list? I suspected there was more on that list than on Angel Gabriel’s. I spent many a pre-teenage summer frying flying ants on my Mum’s electric hob or putting insects into pans of cold water then boiling them. I had also kept creatures in Tic-Tac boxes until they starved or suffocated. Ming the Merciless had nothing on me!
Not only had I done bad things, I had failed to do the good ones. I hadn’t prayed, I hadn’t attended church, most importantly I hadn’t believed. I wanted a faith now, even more than that, or perhaps linked to that faith, I wanted courage. Courage to go to the Doctor’s and courage to deal with whatever news he delivered. I felt like the lion in the Wizard of Oz.
My mind was constantly working overtime. As soon as I visualised solutions to certain questions, new questions emerged. If I did get the courage to go to the Doctor’s and he decided I had six weeks to live, what would I do and who would I tell? Would it be courageous or selfish to run away and die alone like a sick old cat? I decided, until it came to a stage that my illness became evident, the only person I would tell would be Kelly. I could mentally picture her holding my hand as I slipped tragically away like a scene in an Australian soap opera, even to the extent that I had some white coated Aussie running in as the flatline sounded, shouting,
“Strewth! The flaming gulahs copped it!”
The others I considered telling were my Mum and Dad, my two sisters and Jim, but I decided, Mum, Helen and Caroline would suffocate me with kindness before the cancer got me and Jim would spend my final few weeks saying,
“I told you so!”
As for Dad, I concluded that he would probably put every penny the family had on a 66-1 shot running at Brighton, on the basis that if it won, he would pay for me to trial some miracle cure.
It wasn’t hard to decide that confiding in Kelly was my only real option. Kelly was smart and tactile, so she would say the right things and provide the necessary amount of hugs needed. That was the intention anyway. Sometimes though, where you set off towards and where you arrive at, can be two totally different destinations.
Richie
It was never my intention to go to the match with him. I had always had the impression that he was a token Evertonian, that maybe his Dad had supported us and he had just followed suit and feigned an interest, but Ray was Kelly’s sister’s boyfriend and Kelly’s sister still didn’t like me, so it felt like I was duty bound to agree to it. It wasn’t just any old game either, it was Everton against Norwich, FA Cup Semi-Final and the winner, in all likelihood, would face Liverpool in the Final, as it was widely anticipated that they would overcome Nottingham Forest in the other semi. I had been to the Final in 1986 when Liverpool had beaten Everton 3-1, despite Everton leading 1-0. Since then, Liverpool had probably become even better and Everton were no longer as good, but another Merseyside final would give the blue side of Merseyside an opportunity to avenge this defeat.
FA Cup Semi Finals were always played at neutral venues, ours was Villa Park, Birmingham, the other one was at Hillsborough, Sheffield Wednesday’s ground. I had a season ticket at Everton, so managed to get hold of a couple of tickets for our Semi, but having failed my driving test three times, I was intending to head down to Villa Park by bus. That was the plan until Kelly’s sister managed to overhear a conversation Kelly and I were having about me trying to flog my spare ticket so I could afford to pay for an Eavesway coach down.
It was early one Saturday evening and Kelly and I were watching Noel’s House Party in their lounge. After the bra around the thigh incident, during my karaoke sessions at Kelly’s window, Kelly used to keep me away from her mother, as I think she decided her Mum would have me for supper, like a praying mantis, if our paths ever crossed within their four walls. According to Kelly, her Mum referred to me as “F.K” (short for “Fit Kid”!), so to protect my personal safety, I was only ever invited around on one of the regular nights her Mum was out on the lash!
On this particular Saturday, I had just related my tale of poverty, as if I was a modern day Jack from the beanstalk story, with the FA Cup Semi-Final tickets replacing the cow, by being the only thing I had of value. Jemma must have been earwigging in the hallway as she popped her head in. I shifted uncomfortably on the settee, hoping Jemma did not have a strong sense of smell, as we were at the stage of our relationship where foreplay tended to be the end play, as it had been ten minutes earlier. I made a mental note not to play these games when Jemma was also in, she arrived unannounced too frequently and I did not fancy the idea of being caught mid-spurt.
“Did I hear you talking about FA Cup Semi Final tickets?”
There was no “hello”, no “how’s it going?” Or “how are you doing?” Just stra
ight in with the question, blunt as ever. Kelly reckoned Jemma was a changed woman, but certain things remained the same.
“I’ve got two,” I replied, “I’m selling one though”.
“I’ll have it!” Jemma proclaimed.
It was Saturday 1st April, I looked at her face to see if there was any indications that she was taking the piss. It appeared not.
“How much do you want for it?”
“Just what I paid for it. Face value. Fifteen quid.”
The smell of sperm was not the only thing making me feel uncomfortable now. Jemma appeared deadly serious but I really did not like the idea of going to this game with her. I presumed she could drive and that she would drive us down. If she did and I gave her the wrong directions, I could imagine being accused of looking for a lay-by so I could screw her again, like in her imagination, I already had. I bought time as I thought of an excuse to turn down her offer.
“I didn’t know you were into football, Jemma? Kelly’s never mentioned it.”
This was a genuine question. Nothing had ever given me the impression at all, that Jemma was into football. If Colin Harvey, Everton’s manager, had knocked on their door at that very moment, I still suspected that she would have given him the milk money.
“I’m not!”
Phew!
“Ray is though…”
Damn!
“….he’s a big Evertonian! He’d love to go! You wouldn’t need to get a coach down either. Ray could drive.”
Brilliant!
So, at 7am on Saturday, 15th April 1989, Ray’s shiny, metallic blue Ford Escort with spoilers, revved its engine outside our front drive and Ray impatiently beeped his horn.
“Who the bloody hell is that, tooting his horn at this time of the morning?”
