Forever Is Over (43 page)

Of all the stupid things I have ever heard in my entire life, this
one wins. In fact, it does not just win, it ranks as a billion times more
stupid than anything else I have ever heard before or since. For me,
Ray
’
s words were the pinnacle of tactless stupidity in the aftermath of
an almighty tragedy. When I look back at my reaction, I have always
thought, considering who I was dealing with, I did exactly the right
thing. I could have punched him in the face. I could have spat in his
face, but I didn
’
t. I just leaned across the car, put my right arm around
his neck, pulled him towards me and kissed him, throwing in a little
tongue for good measure. Ray had just made me feel sick to the pits of
my stomach and now I was making him feel the same.

Pulling away forcefully, Ray looked at me in horror, bemusement
and shock.

“
What the hell are you doing? That was disgusting! What are you
playing at?
”

I opened my car door.

“
No, Ray, you are disgusting.
”

I closed the door behind me. I didn
’
t slam it, to make a scene, just
gently pushed it to. As I walked towards the petrol station, I heard
his engine start. I kept walking. As he got level with me, he rolled his
window down.

“
What are you doing?
”
he asked.

I looked straight forward, ignoring him. I had no intention of
speaking to Ray that minute, that hour, that lifetime. I was not getting
back in his car!

“
Are you getting back in this car so we can go home? Answer me,
you weird little shit! What are you on?
”

Ray
’
s questions were met with silence. I just kept walking. Millions of
people were united in a collective grief that day, yet I was stuck with one
man who
’
s head was so far up his own arse, he did not understand.

“
Sod you then, Richie! Find your own way home!
”

Ray let his foot off the clutch, slammed his other on the accelerator
and wheel span off.

It wasn
’
t hard to get a lift back to Ormskirk. Half the supporters
travelling home virtually passed by Ormskirk on the M58, which runs
through to North Liverpool. I managed to get a lift off a married
Liverpudlian couple, in their thirties who were very shaken
up,
particularly the lady, as they had been together in the Leppings Lane
end when the tragedy had happened. They had been away from the main
incidents as they had stood by one of the corner flags, but they had seen
the events unfolding from only twenty metres away.

“
There are a lot of people tonight with blood on their hands.
”

Gary,
the male half of the couple expla
ined as he sped along the M58,

             
“
Think about it, Richie, there
’
s a multitude of people who deserve
to take their fair share of responsibility for this. Do you believe in God,
Richie?
”

I shook my head.
“
No.
”

“
Neither do I mate, neither do I. I think that makes it worse to be
honest, mate. Just thinking these people had their lunch somewhere
in Sheffield today, all excited about the game, talked tactics, talked
scorelines, eagerly arrived early to get a good view of the pitch, then,
because of a string of mistakes by bureaucrats, people they didn
’
t even
know, their whole existence has been snuffed out.
“

Gary clicked his fingers.

“
Just like that, gone. Just imagine going to the match with your mate
today, getting separated by the surge, getting out and discovering your
mate never did. It doesn
’
t bear thinking about.
”

Gary obviously had a lot running through his head, there were
various people he held responsible for the
tragedy, a lot of the time we
sat in silence, but once in a while he thought about another section of
society who played their part in creating this disaster and wanted to vent
his anger. He dealt with the Football Association and the Government
and then moved on.

“
You know who else I blame, Richie? I blame every single football
hooligan in this sorry nation of ours. I
’
m not talking about today, I
’
m
talking about violence on the terraces and outside the grounds over the
last ten years. These pricks think it
’
s clever to fight in the name of eleven
men they don
’
t even know against some other daft fuck who
’
s fighting
for his eleven men, who he doesn
’
t know either, just because they kick
their ball at his ground and he decided at five years old that he liked
their football shirt. Think about it, Richie, it
’
s ridiculous, isn
’
t it? But as
a result of these stupid thick twats fighting with each other, the rest of us
are all caged in like animals every time we go to a game! Then tragedies
like todays happen because innocent kids and young men and women
are trapped in the cages these knobheads have caused to be there.

I also blame the police. They just stood there and watched dozens
and dozens of people die in front of their eyes. Collectively, could they
not have done something more? Why did they not delay the kick off or
talk to each other on their walkie-talkies and stop people getting in or put them into our section, by the corner flag, which wasn
’
t even full?
How could they have got it so wrong?

You know what, Richie, you know what I think would be a tiny
piece of justice?
”

“
What?
”

“
If every single person and group I
’
ve mentioned was forced to
attend as many of the funerals as it was physically possible to attend.
Let them witness first hand what their stupidity and incompetence has
done. See the families they
’
ve destroyed. See the heartbreak they
’
ve
created. They should all be made to line up in front of the mourners
and made to say,

‘
I am responsible for the death of your father, your mother, your
husband, your wife, your daughter, your son
…
’
whoever. Because I
tell you what, Richie, over the next few weeks, mark my words, no-one
will take their share of responsibility, everyone will blame everyone
else . I hope I
’
m wrong, I hope all these idiots come forward and carry
the can for their mistakes, but they won
’
t, mark my words, Richie, they
won
’
t.
”

Gary let go of the steering wheel then simultaneously slammed both
arms down onto it.

“
How can something like this be allowed to happen? It
’
s just
insane!
”

I asked Gary to drop me off at the Little Chef in Skelmersdale, by
the exit of the M58, but he wouldn
’
t hear of it. He took me all the way
to Aughton, dropping me off outside my door.

Mum and Dad were in the lounge watching TV when I came
in. Mum came up to me and without saying a word kissed me on the
forehead. I knew exactly what she meant by this. It was a way of saying
we were the lucky ones.

I struggled to sleep that night. Peter Jones
’
commentary kept going
round and round in my head,

“
who would have known that people would die here, in the stadium,
this afternoon.
”

As I finally drifted off, my mind bade farewell to the horrors of the
day, selfishly relieved it was no-one I knew. Little did I know, four hours
later an all together different grief would be heading my way.

Richie (24 hours earlier)

I hate going to the Doctor
’
s. Always have. Give me the Dentist
’
s
any day. At the Dentist, they
’
ll tell you that you need a filling or a tooth
out, they won
’
t tell you that your arteries are clogged and your tickers
knackered or chances are you have cancer. I
’
m sure 99% of the time, GPs
don
’
t deliver nightmare news but Dentists never do, so I know which one I
’
d rather visit.

I sat in the waiting room nervously. To me, the sound of multiple
coughers is like nails on a blackboard. Excruciatingly annoying! I looked
around. A Doctor
’
s waiting room is a mixture of the old and the new. For the old, its like a fitting room for the undertakers,

“
Could you get up on the bed, please.
”

“
What for? I only came in with a cough.
”

“
I know. We just need to measure you up for your coffin.
”

I mentally berated myself. I was not in a position to be taking the
mickey out of anyone who may be edging towards death, for all I knew
these old guys might be out lasting me.

It was just impossible not to notice though that the surgery was full
of old people and paranoid parents who bring their babies down because
they have a runny nose and Mummy
’
s bored, looking for something to
do as toddler classes don
’
t start for another twelve months.

I was the odd one out. As I gave my name to the receptionist, I felt
like the
“
townie
”
ordering a pint in a small village pub. I could feel the
looks. I was half-expecting someone with a West Country accent to tap
me on the shoulder and say,

“
You ain
’
t from these parts, are you?
”

As I gave the lady my name, babies stopped crying, coughers
stopped coughing and the coffin dodgers who had hitherto been facing
away from me, managed to muster 180 degree mobility in their necks,
probably for the first time in years. Everyone wanted to know who was
gatecrashing their early morning moan fest.

I
’
m sure a dozen regulars played
“
Guess The New Boys Illness
”
in
their own minds. It was time. The lump had outgrown its scrotal nest
and was now seeking a wider audience. I could hold it back no longer.
It had been around now for twelve months, it wasn
’
t a baby any more.
Despite a 9.30a.m appointment, I had to sit in the waiting room
collecting germs until gone ten. Readers Digest, May 1987, had never
seemed so interesting. At five past, I was all set to have a word with
the receptionist but her demeanour was
off putting. Dr.Whiteside had
obviously borrowed her from a Victorian orphanage and frozen her in
time for a hundred years as she was extremely adept at denying anyone
access to the Doctor. I imagine Oliver Twist would not even have got his
first bowl of gruel off this tyrant. She seemed fascinated with the phone,
which I suppose was only natural given her Victorian background,

“
Well, I don
’
t care if your three year old has contracted rabies, Mrs.
Funnell. Dr.Whiteside is extremely busy until a week next Friday, bring
him in then. I bid you good day!
”