Forever Is Over

by Wade, Calvin

  Fifteen or so years later, I only tell people in my inner circle about my time at Styal. Others probably know because rumours spread at school gates like colds in a classroom, but the only people who hear it first hand, are those I implicitly trust. When I tell them I was wrongly convicted for a murder (or manslaughter) that I did not commit and that as a result I spent almost two years in Styal, the common reaction is to suggest that I should write a book about my experiences. This is one of the most ridiculous things I have ever heard! Who would read it? People who want to cheer themselves up? Not a chance. My time at Styal was the lowest period of my life and I would rather forget every second of it than delve into it in great detail. I made no friends there, I partook in no drugs or sexual relations, although both were as accessible as chocolate at Willy Wonka’s factory, I just tried to be friendly enough to avoid a beating but distant enough not to get dragged into any cliques. This was not “Porridge” or “Prisoner Cell Block H” where inmates were friendly, loveable characters who were just a little rough around the edges. This was Styal where inmates had been pushed out the normality tree at a tender age and then been beaten by every shitty stick in the surrounding forest.

  Fifteen years on, I remember very few names. Not the wardens, not the governors, not even the woman’s who I shared a cell with for three months, although having thought about that one for an hour, I think it was a Glaswegian self-harmer called Rosemary. It is all just a blur. I hated the place, I hated the people but I do remember the one thing that did eat away at me most in my time at Styal. It was not the twenty hours a day in a cell, it was not the beatings or the vile food. The thing that destroyed me in my first six months at Styal was visiting time. Four weeks after being sentenced, I received a letter from Amy telling me that my Nan (“Tut”) who had been so supportive, had passed away in Arrowe Park hospital, three days after having a massive stroke. She was 72. After that, for six months, no-one else came. They left me to rot. My first visitor, six months after “Tut’s” death was Richie Billingham. When he came, I had to decide whether I wanted to thank him for coming or reach across the table and punch him for abandoning me there for six months!

  Amy

  Richie Billingham was fit. Fact. Some things in life are debatable. Is Da Vinci’s ‘Mona Lisa’ a masterpiece? Do you to go to heaven when you die? Are ugly people attracted to other ugly people or are they just getting by? Of all sexual persuasions do gay men have the most sex? There are people who will debate opposing viewpoints on each of these, but try and find a girl from Ormskirk Grammar School in the late 1980’s who thought Richie Billingham was unattractive and honestly, you would have more chance finding that elusive needle at harvest time.

  When Richie started ‘going out’ with Kelly Watkinson, I must admit, at first, I found it really, really weird. It was a bit like Patrick Swayze going for Jennifer Grey in “Dirty Dancing” or Richard Gere going for Debra Winger in “Officer and a Gentleman”. If you had the pick of absolutely anyone, why would you choose them?

  This is not to say that Kelly wasn’t stunning, she probably turned out to be the prettiest woman I have ever met, she has mesmerising green eyes, wonderful skin and a smile that would cost a Hollywood actress a small fortune, but at the time, I did not appreciate any of that. All I could see was Richie Billingham, the heartthrob of our year, who could have trounced Gere and Swayze in any “Best Looking Male” competition, was “going out” with my best mate, Jemma’s, kid sister, Kelly. She was just a baby. Kelly was two years younger than us. At that point in your life, a school year is a gulf, two years is a chasm.

  Truth be told, I always had a bit of a thing for Richie Billingham. There were other fit lads at school, Jemma went out with one called Billy McGregor and I “got off” with his mate, Eddie Garland, once, but they were full of it. Nothing mattered more than their reflection. Richie was different. He had the smouldering good looks, he looked like Jude Law did in his early twenties, when he was married to Sadie Frost, but he just did not have that teenage boy ego. Richie was mature beyond his years, a true gentleman, which made it seem even more bizarre that he was dating someone who looked like she’d only just returned from Candy Land on the ‘Good Ship Lollipop’.

  Years later, when I went to see Les Miserables, the character Eponine reminded me of myself with Richie. I certainly did not have scheming, penny pinching parents like Eponine, but I was totally besotted with Richie, just like Eponine was besotted with Marius and in return, their feelings were purely platonic.

  I remember once being at a party over in Halsall, at Joey Birch’s house and being in Joey’s kitchen when Richie Billingham walked in. That night actually turned out to be the night I ‘kopped off ’ with Eddie Garland and when Richie walked in, I was already halfway through Eddie’s best lines on me. I cursed my luck. I hadn’t realised Richie was coming and now I knew he was here, what did I do, blow Eddie out and go for the star prize or stick with what I had? I remember standing there, not really listening to what Eddie was saying, as I kept glancing past him to see what Richie was up to. I must have tried to catch Richie’s eye one hundred times in that kitchen, but he did not look my way once, he just sat there talking to Kelly, so after twenty minutes or so, I decided, by chasing my dream, I could end up with nothing, so I cut my losses and “kopped” with Eddie.

  Later on that night, I was standing in the bathroom queue, with Kelly and Jemma and Richie came and stood behind us. I was drunk but Jemma was far, far worse and we were trying to get her to the toilet quickly. I remember when Richie was behind us, I daren’t turn around as Eddie Garland had had a pretty stubbly face and I had a red rash all over mine where his stubble had been brushing up against my face during our more passionate moments! I stood in that queue pleading that Richie did not to say anything which made me turn around to reveal my face, it would take my already limited chances down to zero! I remember trying to keep the conversation going with Jemma and Kelly, without pausing for a second’s breath, in case Richie should start talking to us. Kelly started chatting to him at one point, but I just kept yapping to Jemma until Andrew Cullen came out the bathroom and Kelly and I bundled Jemma in.

  All through school, Jemma and I had been like soul sisters, we spent all our time together, mainly Jemma coming over to my house, because her Mum was a bit of an alcoholic fruitcake, but we were pretty much inseparable. Instead of calling us by our names, some of the catty girls at school used to call us “Siamese”. Instead of saying,

  “What are Amy and Jemma doing?”

  They would say,

  “What are Siamese doing?”

  It didn’t really bother me, but it used to wind Jemma up good and proper! Jemma always used to have an edge to her, that ‘too cool for school’ swagger and I don’t think she liked being seen as part of a double act, after all she probably had the strongest personality of all the girls in our year. Like most girls, I just wanted to be liked, but Jemma wasn’t like that, she did not care tuppence if she was liked or not, I just think she wanted to be remembered.

  I loved Jemma. I thought she was great. A lot of the girls in our year, could not stand the sight of her, but I thought she was fantastic. I wished I could be as confident as her, as witty, as good looking. Mr. Redworth, our History teacher, described her as Ormskirk’s Audrey Hepburn. I do remember being completely cheesed off with her once though. It was that night at the Birch’s. I had inadvertently walked in on her in bed with some bloke. I didn’t see who it was, as all I saw was Jemma’s perfectly formed backside riding on top of an obscured figure. Jemma later claimed it was Richie and I just could not get the vision of them together out of my head. It was an unwanted mental picture that I would have to carry for the rest of my life, like a tattoo of Jesus on an atheists arm.

  I had probably had a thing for Richie for eighteen months by then. I had never confessed this passion to Jemma though, simply because she was far better looking than me. I feared by letting Jemma know how I felt, I may draw her attention to him when h
er sights had always been on older boys. So, despite hoping beyond hope that they would never be an item, it looked like their beauty had drawn them together.

  I felt sorry for Kelly too, she was all happy to have secured a date with Richie, blissfully unaware that he’d been screwing her sister. Jemma told her later though, not that night, I don’t think, but a few days later.

  My teenage friendship with Jemma was never quite the same after that. It was probably not really down to that night, as I am a forgiving sort, but more down to “O” level results. After “O” levels, I stayed on at “The Grammar” Sixth Form, whilst Jemma left school and started work at the Middlelands Bank in Moor Street. We kept in touch, but not long after starting at the bank, she started dating some real gorky looking older bloke called Ray. He must have felt like all his Saturdays had come at once to be dating a girl like Jemma when his mirror told only horror stories. Once he arrived on the scene though, Jemma changed and our friendship faltered. We went from speaking a couple of times a week on the phone and seeing each other every Friday and Saturday night, to just the occasional phone call. I felt let down and I wrongly blamed Ray for taking her away from me, which was daft really as Jemma would have kept in touch more had she really wanted to. We both just moved on. I started going to Disraelis, Bowlers and The Buck at weekends with my Sixth Form mates, whilst Jemma did whatever she did with “Triple Sacker”, as I called him - he was too ugly to be a ‘double bagger’, three sacks over his head to hide that ugly mug seemed about right!

  Communication between Jemma and I just faded away like an echo until one weekend in April 1989. The weekend of the Hillsborough disaster. I was in Ormskirk that Saturday afternoon, trying to pick up a bargain or two off the market, when I noticed there was a crowd gathering outside Rumbelows window. Being of curious nature, I wandered over to see what was on the TV that was grabbing everyone’s attention.

  “What’s happening?” I asked some tall guy at the back who was peering over everyone else’s heads with his three year old daughter on his shoulders.

  “I can’t really tell. It looks like something has happened at the Liverpool game. Not football violence though, more like too many people on the terraces in the Liverpool end.”

  I managed to squeeze my way into gaps and found myself virtually at the front. The scenes were awful, Liverpool fans, policemen, paramedics and the men from St. John’s were working frantically to help the injured. People in the stand were hoisting up the fans underneath, whilst the aforementioned groups were running backwards and forwards on the pitch, carrying away the injured on advertising boards. You could see the crush but it was hard to comprehend why it could not be instantly resolved just by opening the gates at the front or making everyone at the back take a few steps backwards. A white ambulance weaved its way through to the crowds to the terrace were the main casualties were. I walked away concluding some people must have been seriously hurt. It was only later, when I was at home in the lounge with Mum, that I appreciated the gravity of the disaster. Moira Stuart was on the BBC News and announced that seventy four people had died. I remember my Dad walking in as the news started and correcting her as she said they died at the FA Cup Final and it was the semi-final and then he felt guilty about picking up on something so trivial amidst such an almighty tragedy and he just sat on the sofa, watched and cried. We all did.

  I went out that night but Ormskirk was quiet. Understandably. Bucking the tranquility trend were Jemma’s Mum and the rest of her pathetic bunch of loser mates, who I remember seeing as I walked past the bus station and up town towards Disraelis. They were all coming out of the Golden Lion shouting “F” words to each other as they crossed the road to the taxi rank, clippity clopping on their stilettos like barebacked two legged horses looking for a ride. I remember putting my head down and increasing my walking pace in the vain hope that Jemma’s Mum would not see me, but she did. I walked on, feigning deafness now as well as blindness as Jemma’s Mum shouted over,

  “Amy! Amy!”

  I kept going but heard her yell,

  “Ignore me then, you cheeky little bitch! No wonder you’re mates with my daughter. Stuck up pair of tarts you are! FUCK YOU!”

  It’s funny how life works, isn’t it? I remember at Jemma’s Mum’s funeral thinking that they were her final words to me! I also remember thinking that in my own very small way, I was responsible for her death that night. If I’d have stopped to talk to Jemma’s Mum, she would have more than likely been later in the queue at the taxi rank and then taken a different taxi to Southport, arriving at different places at different times, come across different people. Who knows, she may even have met some random horny bloke with no self-respect, who may have taken her back to his house or flat and then she would never arrived back home in the early hours of Sunday morning and fallen to her death down her stairs.

  I could have saved her life that night. Do I wish I had? Not really. I suppose I could have saved Jemma from jail, that’s my only regret. I could have stopped Jemma from going to jail.

  I woke up late the following morning, probably around eleven. When I went downstairs, Dad was in the kitchen dining area, on our old circular kitchen table, with a mug of coffee (“World’s Best Dad” mug) in the midst of several papers, tabloids and broadsheets, with several horrendous images of crushed faces against the perimeter fence at Hillsborough. It seemed impossible to comprehend how photographers could just stand there, taking photos, whilst people were crushed to death in front of their eyes. If I had been a photographer at Hillsborough that day, I would have put my camera down and gone to help in any way I could. Sometimes there is more to life than just doing your job.

  “Jemma called,” Dad announced without raising his head.

  “What did she want?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I just said you were asleep and that you would ring her back when you woke up.”

  I grabbed the phone, dialled Jemma’s number, expecting her to just have phoned for a chat or to tell me it was all off between her and “Triple Sacker” or something equally trivial and bland. Once she uttered the words, “Vomit Breath’s dead!” my world entered spin cycle mode and kept spinning for several months. I did not know whether I was coming or going. I was a middle class Ormskirk girl, my world was supposed to be about hair highlights and fingernails, not remand centres and murder trials. I grew up a lot over those next few months, but still managed to make a holy show of myself in front of Richie Billingham, which haunts me to this day, even more than that vision of Jemma’s bouncing backside!

  Richie

  I was officially smashed. Jim was at the bar and I was trying to focus on him from the table but it was a struggle. Jim was debating some point or other with the barman and then they shook hands, Jim handed him a note and the barman then took the optic off the upside down vodka bottle with its right way up label and gave Jim a tray, two glasses and the bottle of vodka. I looked at the mass of empty pint glasses on our table and groaned as I watched Jim proudly zigzag across the room with his newly acquired booty. He plonked it on to our table, pushing the empty pint glasses to one side.

  “We will die if we drink that!” I protested.

  Jim, still standing, put his arms around my neck and leaned into me with his head, displaying a level of affection never previously seen between us.

  “Richie, you have had a shitty time recently and it’s made me realise what you mean to me. Sometimes, just sometimes, you are a right royal pain in the butt, but most of the time, you are a great brother and I’m proud of how you have dealt with everything that’s happened to you. Cancer, Kelly disappearing, it’s been crap for you hasn’t it, but things are getting better now, aren’t they? It’s all uphill from here.”

  Maybe I wasn’t the most inebriated!

  “You mean downhill, Jim!”

  “I mean downhill.” Jim agreed. “There was a time there that I thought everything could turn really nasty and I thought about what life would be like without a brother. We a
ren’t the closest brothers in the world, we like different things, we move in different circles, I have a lot of sex, you don’t because you are into the romantic side of things and its all flowers and love songs and things I don’t get, but we’re brothers and the thought of being without you, just did not bear thinking about.”

  Jim stopped wrapping himself around my neck, sat down and poured two generous measures of vodka into our glasses.

  “So, I want to propose a toast,” he said lifting his glass, “to a great brother. May your days of dodgy girlfriends, lumpy balls and bedwetting be behind you! Cheers!”

  Jim and I clunked our glasses and downed our drinks. There was that nice burning sensation in my throat that straight vodka brings.

  “You always bring it back to the bedwetting, don’t you, Jim?”

  “It would be wrong not to,” said Jim with a smile, “I play the role of annoying little brother very well!”

  Not so much of the little! Jim was built like a tank.

  We were in Disraeli’s. A virtually empty Disraeli’s. It was generally a popular spot in Ormskirk, amongst all ages under forty, but not at six o’clock on a Friday evening. Three hours later, you would hardly be able to move in there, but at six o’clock, it was all ours, other than a couple of estate agents having a pint together before heading home to their families.

  Jim had planned this drinking session with almost military precision.

  He was on a ‘Study Week’ off from Sixth Form, prior to taking his “A” levels and I was on one of my three weeks a year off from Andy’s Records, so Jim had suggested we head out together for an all day and all night session. This was a good idea in principle, but Jim was built like a gigantic bullfrog and I was built like a high jumper, so he was always going to have the capacity to out drink me! Jim had planned our route. We had started at “The Cockbeck” in Aughton at twelve o’clock, had a couple of pints there, before walking up Town Green Lane to the appropriately named “Town Green Inn”, which was over the road from my primary school, which meant all those memories of my halcyon days of kissing Anna Eccleston in the playground, came flooding back.