Forever Is Over (42 page)

Listening to this was unbearable. My head was in my hands, my
face was now drenched in tears and my knickers were wet with urine.
It was like two tom cats squaring up. I knew them both too well. I
knew neither would back down. There was a disaster heading their way,
impending doom and all my tears and fears were for Jemma. I loved
Jemma, she was everything a sister should be, but she was in a situation
now whereby it was impossible to emerge victorious. She was going to
be a murderer or murdered. The verbal sparring was relentless.

“
How fucking stupid are you, Jemma? Do you really see me running
away from you? Knife or no knife, what makes you think for a second, I
would run away from a snobby little bitch, like you? I
’
d rather die!
”
“
RUN MOTHER!
”

“
NOT A CHANCE!
”

I could hear the slow creaks of the stairs and could just tell Mum
was slowly edging her way up towards Jemma.

“
I
’
m warning you, do NOT come any closer!
”

“
You don
’
t scare me Jemma, not one bit!
”

A futher creak of a stair. They must have been so close now that
they could almost touch.

“
Back off, MOTHER!
”

Jemma spoke in panicky tones. Mum spoke in an aggressive, assured
tone. The experience of a million stand-offs.

“
Jemma, I am warning you. If you don
’
t put that knife down, I
’
m
going to rip your head off and dip soldiers in your neck!
”
“
MOVE
…
.AWAY!
”

I suddenly flipped. I stood up, opened my door, put my head down
and screaming as loud as my lungs had the capacity to scream, I ran
along the landing towards Mum, who was barely a few feet away, a
couple of steps from the top of the stairs. I caught her off guard, seeing
me hurtle towards her, she took half a step back and then I put my two
hands out and PUSHED. She instinctively reached out to grab me like
a woman teetering on a mountains edge, but the drink inside her meant
her reactions were too slow. Mum fell backwards, flipping over and then
tumbling. Our hall was tiled rather than carpeted, so when Mum hit
the bottom, there was an almighty thud. Then silence. I broke it.

“
Oh my God!
”

Jemma dropped the knife.

“
Quick!
”
she said. I couldn
’
t do anything quickly now. Shock had
kicked in. What had I just done? I had pushed my mother, with all the
might I could muster, down our stairs. Mum was going to kill me. I
was the little sister again.

“
What do we do?
”
I asked.

I needed an answer. I needed Jemma to make everything right.
When Mum got up, Jemma was going to have to protect me. Jemma
was not going to be the sole victim any more.

When I was in primary school, Jemma would come into my room,
when I was having nightmares, hold my hand, talk soothingly and wipe
my brow. I wanted Jemma to do that now, hold my hand, comfort me,
give me a big sister kiss, stroke my hair and tell me not to worry. Let me
know it was all going to be OK. Please God, let it all be OK.

             
Richie

Throughout the first half, stories were spreading, emanating from men with portable radios,
about trouble at Hillsborough.

             
“
Bloody Liverpool fans!
”
was the initial reaction,
“
I can
’
t believe
they are doing it again after Heysel.
”

Football violence had overshadowed football itself in the 1980
’
s and
the tragedy at Heysel , four years earlier, where thirty nine Juventus fans
had died, following riotous scenes pre-match, had led to English teams
being banned from European competition. Wrongly, many Evertonians
assumed, based on the first radio reports, that this was another incident
of football hooliganism. The cursory words aimed at Liverpool fans
soon eased though, as news slowly spread, that it was not violence on
the terraces but an incident triggered by overcrowding.

“
They
’
ve called the game off,
”
someone reported,
“
they are saying
one person may have died. On the radio they are saying it may be a
young lad.
”

There was universal concern. Football loyalties in Merseyside
and the surrounding areas often divided families in two, half blue for
Everton, half red for Liverpool. The vast majority of Evertonians would
have had friends and family at Hillsborough. Several of my friends from
school had gone, as well as a couple of Uncles and many close friends
of my Mum and Dads.

“
These things get blown out of all proportion,
”
one middle aged man
said as he switched off his radio,
“
no-one will have died. Remember when
Liverpool won the League at Stamford Bridge in
’
86, when Dalglish
scored? Rumours went around Goodison that Chelsea had equalised,
then gone 2-1 up, 3-1 then 4-1. One nil it ended. I
’
ve heard it myself,
there
’
s been some overcrowding in the Leppings Lane end, everyone
’
s
really worried, but the police, the stewards and the paramedics will sort
it out. It
’
ll be something and nothing. Might just teach the FA a lesson.
Liverpool should have been in the home end, not that away one.
”

Minds that had temporarily been drawn away from events on the
pitch in front of us, were soon focused back on our game. Everton were
on top for most of the game, but it was a nervy match, full of mistakes
with Everton eventually squeezing home one-nil with a scrambled goal
from our Scottish winger, Pat Nevin. A bundled shot hit the post and
Pat tapped in the rebound from about two feet out. It was never going
to win
“
Goal of The Season
”
, but at the time it was our
“
Goal Of The Season
”
and when it went in, I hugged the stranger on my left rather
than prostitute myself by hugging Ray.

When the final whistle went, I was elated, even high fiving Ray. FA Cup Final here we come. A chance to avenge the 1986 defeat against
Liverpool. I was so pleased, I almost hugged Ray at the end, then came
to my senses and settled for that high five. I skipped, child like, all the
way back to the car.

“
Put the radio on,
”
I implored Ray,
“
you
’
ll catch the match report
and see if there
’
s any truth in that story about the other semi-final being
called off.
”

Amazingly Ray switched it straight on without even a hint of a
bullshit story about the day he played in a Semi-Final that was abandoned
because he had to rugby tackle three dozen lions that escaped from the
back of a passing circus lorry. I immediately twiddled the dial to find
“
Sport on Two
”
. I found it in an instant and the sombre voice of the
presenter, Peter Jones, painted a horrendous mental image,

“…
.well I think, the biggest irony is the sun is shining now and
Hillsborough is quiet and over there to the left, the green Yorkshire
hills
…
who would have known that people would die here, in the
stadium, this afternoon.

I don
’
t necessarily want to reflect on Heysel, but I was there that
night, broadcasting with Emlyn Hughes and he was sitting behind me
this afternoon and after half an hour of watching stretchers going out
and oxygen cylinders being brought in and ambulance sirens screaming,
he touched me on the shoulder and he said,
“
I can
’
t take any more,
”
and
Emlyn Hughes left.

The gymnasium here at Hillsborough is being used as a mortuary
for the dead and at this moment, stewards have got little paper bags
and they are gathering up the personal belongings of the spectators and
there are red and white scarves of Liverpool and red and white bobble
hats of Liverpool and red and white rosettes of Liverpool and nothing
else
…………
.and the sun shines now.
”

“
Fucking hell!
”

We swore in unison.

The dead. How many dead? As Ray drove home, initial figures were
discussed, it was thought that over seventy had lost their lives and by the
time we reached Stafford, that estimate had risen to over eighty. Men,
women, boys and girls, out for the day to cheer their team on, would
never return home. It was impossible to take in. This was not young men
going to war, this was a football match. Rivalries existed but for most
people they weren
’
t real, it was all just banter. Radio reports indicated
that there were definitely several children amongst the dead.

At a petrol station on the East Lancs Road, the enormity of the
tragedy kicked in. Some of the delayed Liverpudlians had stopped to
re-fuel and to grab a quick hot drink or a sandwich, still wearing their
hats, scarves and badges. The red of Liverpool and the blue of Everton
all mixed together, some relieved families who that morning had gone
to their separate Semi-Finals were meeting back up. Everyone was
united in grief for those less fortunate than them. I could not control
my emotions any longer, my tears flowed.

People are shallow creatures and to an extent I think grief is a
selfish emotion. We do not cry solely for the dead, their family and their
loved ones. We cry through empathy, often a selfish empathy, that,
“
it
could have been me
”
feeling. Here I was, returning from the other FA
Cup Semi-Final with a strange lump lurking in my ball sack. I sobbed
from the depths of my soul, for the red half of my nearest city, for the
families who had been or would be told of losses they would never
learn to live with and I cried because I was one of the lucky ones at the
“
safe
”
Semi-Final and I cried because I did not know how long my luck
would last.

Throughout that day, my loathing for Ray had grown as quickly
as a beanstalk in a fairytale, so at that precise point, I did not think
it possible to hate him more, but Ray rose to the challenge. He put a
consoling arm around me.

“
Don
’
t upset yourself, mate! Just think of it as karma.
”

My emotions shifted. Hairs stood up on my neck. Sadness was
replaced by anger. I could not believe what I
was hearing, even from
him.

“
What?
”

“
It
’
s karma, mate. For those Italians that died at Heysel. For us
Evertonians that missed out on a European Cup campaign because of
their hooligans. Do you know what this is? It
’
s a higher power levelling
up the score, that
’
s all.
”