Forever Is Over (59 page)

“
Now there
’
s a mystery, who would I rather fuck, the sleeping
assassin or her boyfriend?
”
said Julie, a crackhead streetwalker who was
so ugly I
’
d have expected her punters would have wanted paying.

“
He
’
s not my boyfriend, Julie!
”

“
Why not love? Like the taste of muff, do you? If you ever want a
ladies tongue between your thighs, pretty girl, you know where I am!
”

“
Piss off, Julie!
”

“
Why, what will you do if I don
’
t? Push me down the stairs?
I hear
you
’
ve got form for that! Poor Mummy!
”

Richie told me he had lost contact with Kelly and I explained to
him that she had rung our house on the day of my arrest and Tut had
told her not to come home, because she would be arrested if she did, as
I had been. Richie sat in stunned silence as I related the story to him,
then admitted he was flabbergasted that she had not come back from
Rotterdam, despite any consequences, as soon as she knew I had been
arrested. It did not shock me. Kelly had run off in the first place because
she was petrified of going to jail, so there was no way she was going to
come back, own up and condemn herself to a life in prison. I thought
Richie
’
s view probably stemmed from the fact he thought she would
return as a supportive sister not know
ing that she had committed the
crime.

As time passed, Richie would make regular visits, normally visiting
every four to six weeks. I grew to have mixed feelings about Richie
coming to Risley. On the one hand, each time he visited, he would break
the news that there remained no contact with Kelly, so as time went on,
I began to view him more and more as a single man. This was the good
news, the positive aspect to his visit. I felt sad for him that Kelly had not
at least phoned, but I had found myself thinking more and more about him and was totally aware that my feelings for him were deepening. If
Kelly returned though, even if I was released, I knew my chances were
non-existent.

On the other hand, I questioned why I was seeking this relationship.
Could any relationship be more doomed to failure than one between
Richie and me?
He had dated my sister, who would never forgive me if I
subsequently went out with him, he also had testicular cancer and here
was I, in prison awaiting trial for murder, my hair full of nits, skele
tal frame and generally looking
like a bag of shite! Why did I even entertain
th
e idea of us getting together?

Still, on balance, despite me looking uglier than the offspring of
John Merrick and a sister of Cinderella, I was happy for Richie to
visit me. We had never really been friends. Until I had left school and
started at the bank, I had been a nightmare child really and Richie
had not needed a friend like me. Once he had spilled my baked potato
though, things had changed! We had clung on to each other that day like lifelong friends and I for one, was hoping that
’
s what we would
become. At the very least, I wanted us to become lifelong friends. I
could not help Richie through his illness though from the insides of a prison cell, so that became the million and first reason why I wanted
to get out of there.

The court case was to take place in Preston Crown Court. Twelve
people on a jury would decide the future
direction of my life. If I was
found guilty, they would be getting things horribly wrong, but those
twelve men and women had not been there when Vomit Breath had
died, not witnessed the scene and would not be receiving the accurate
version of events from the only eyewitness. If they sent me to jail, I could
not blame them, I was just hoping my brief would be able to muddy the
waters enough for the jury to have an element of doubt and ultimately
find me innocent. If they did find me guilty, they had to decide whether
it was pre-meditated, as I also faced a charge of manslaughter.

On Richie
’
s final visit to Risley before the trial, he was surprised to
find me in jovial spirits.

“
Does nothing phase you?
”
he asked.

“
What do you mean?
”

“
Well, here you are in this dirty, stinking hellhole of a place, awaiting
trial for murder, surrounded by some of the toughest looking women
I have ever had the misfortune to lay my eyes on, yet you
’
re in a good
mood! I don
’
t get it! Does it not bother you being in here?
”

“
Of course it bothers me, Richie! There
’
s just not a great deal I can
do about it.
”

“
Have you cried since you came in here?
”

“
No.
”

“
Have you cried since your Mum died?
”

“
With relief, perhaps!
”

Richie
’
s face looked a picture. S
tunned was not the word! I had
grown up a lot since leaving school, but I still enjoyed having the
propensity to shock.

“
Jemma! Don
’
t let the guards hear you say that!
”

“
They can hear what they like, Richie! I didn
’
t like Vomit Breath,
in fact, I hated the bones of her, but that doesn
’
t mean I killed her. I
didn
’
t, I swear I didn
’
t!
”

“
Jemma, it
’
s not me that you have to persuade., it
’
s the twelve people
on the jury.
”

“
But do you believe me, Richie?
”

It was important to me to hear that he did. I
was slowly falling in
love with this man and his response would either apply more weight
on the accelerator or shift everything into reverse. I might have learnt
to be tough having spent my whole life living with Vomit Breath, but
I was not a cold blooded killer. If Richie thought I was, I had him all
wrong.

Richie stared into the depths of my eyes.

“
Jemma, I have never thought for one second that you killed your
Mum.
”

Fantastic!

“
Why not?
”

Life had taught me to be cynical. I was not just going to accept that
answer on its merits. I needed to ask. Richie shifted uncomfortably
in his seat. He paused before his response. I was nervous. Would his
answer allow me to believe that he would have faith in me under any
circumstances? It was only once Richie spoke that reality bit. He spoke
in a whisper. A barely audible whisper.

“
Because I know who did. Jemma. We both know who did.
”

It was pouring down. July and there wasn
’
t a cloud in the sky, not
one you could see anyway, as they all just mingled into one massive,
grey sheet. The sky looked like it was sobbing heartily, leaving puddles
everywhere. I was sat on a bench on the
“
Sunny Road
”
, in a t-shirt,
kagool, trainers and shorts. The road was not living up to its name! It
was midday on the 4
th
July, but I was not even supposed to have been
there on a rainy day. All bets were off on a rainy day. I had taken a day
’
s
holiday off work for this too and in total, I only had a miserly fifteen
days a year to take! I knew before I arrived that it was highly unlikely
that Kelly would turn up, but I felt duty bound to visit, like putting
flowers on a grave, no-one that matters knows you
’
ve done it, but you
feel better inside knowing that you did.

A week had passed since I had last spoken to Kelly. My mind
had jumped to hundreds of conclusions in those seven days - she had
been mugged in Rotterdam and was now stranded in Holland with no
money, she had somehow heard that Jemma had been arrested so had
confessed to the murder and was now in some holding cell awaiting
paperwork to ship her over to Britain or maybe she had been picked up
by a Dutch pimp looking for pretty, fresh faced young girls, drugged up
and forced to work in Amsterdam
’
s notorious red light district.

Something must have happened, I knew that much. Since we had
started
“
going out
”
, we had spoken every day, without fail. Now, seven
days had passed and Kelly had not tried to contact me at all. Another
conclusion I played with, was that she had met someone new. I was
99% sure it was too early for that, but for all I knew, some fine looking
Dutch bloke or American backpacker, could have swept her off her feet.
She could be in some pot caf
é
now, rolling a joint with Ruud or Marco
or Tyler or Brandon. Although I had kept telling myself, over and over,
that Kelly was not going to show, I kept persuading myself to wait, just
i
n case she arrived just after I left and then castigated me later for not
loving her enough to stick around. Three hours after I arrived, at two
thirty in the afternoon, I knew with absolute certainty that Kelly would
not be coming. Midday was the agreed time, it had long since passed. I
headed home feeling like that place was now off limits, I would only ever
go back with Kelly or on the 4
th
July. I was a stupid, sentimental old fool
before my time! I liked being me though. I was Kelly Watkinson
’
s lover,
no-one else in the world could say that, unless she was in Amsterdam
taking guilders off drunken visitors to fuel her newly acquired heroin
a
ddiction or was in some five star hotel with Marco, who had suddenly
found fortune since the last time my mind had created him. It was a
nightmare, I needed to hear from her, just to put my mind at rest.

As I trudged back from a wet and miserable
“
Sunny Road
”
with a
damp bottom and a broken heart, I started running, running home just
in case Kelly was phoning me right that minute. Just in case that two minute time saving could make all the difference between answering Kelly
’
s call and missing it.

Once I arrived home, I begged the phone to ring but when it did it
was Uncle Billy or Helen or one of Mum
’
s friends, it was never Kelly.

Kelly did not phone that day, not that night, not that week, not that
month, not that year. Kelly had gone. Eventually she would write, but when she did, a different Richie Billingham opened that letter.
A married man. A father. A veteran of fighting battles. A man not so
emotionally needy as that boy on the
“
Sunny Road
”
, no longer desperate
for the return of his one true love. Is there such a thing as one true love?
Was I destined to be with Kelly as I thought back then? All my teenage
romantic notions were put to the test when that letter finally arrived and
implored me to meet her again on the
“
Sunny Road
”
.

All six of us were sat around the dining room table. No boyfriends,
no girlfriends, no aunties or uncles or grandparents, just Mum, Dad,
Helen, Caroline, Jim and myself. It was a rarity. A rare opportunity
not to be missed. Mum had arranged for us all to meet up, as she
had concluded that we were not spen
ding enough time together as a
family.