Forever Is Over (110 page)

“
We
’
re in the lounge,
”
Mum shouted back, and then she whispered
to me,
“
now this is going to be interesting!
”

Kiffer
’
s black limousine was parked up on Clieves Hill overlooking
miles of greenery in every direction. I had chosen the destination which
seemed very much like the final request of a condemned man. I used to
take the kids to Clieves Hill when they were little to give Dot a break
from them. It was our picnic spot. I used to call it our
“
Sunny Road
”
.
As the limo had moved off from our house, I had calmly asked Kiffer,
“
Where are you taking me?
”

Kiffer just smiled, as though he was a sweet, friendly guy and said,
“
Where would you like to go, Charlie?
”

“
Clieves Hill,
”
I
’
d said,
“
I
’
d like to go to Clieves Hill.
”

If I was going to die, I wanted to go somewhere that brought back
some happy memories.

“
Well, that
’
s where we
’
ll go then,
”
Kiffer said doing his finest
impression of Jimmy Saville,
“
Marcus, take us to Clieves Hill, please.
”

Marcus turned left at the top of our road and headed towards Clieve
s
Hill.
“
Can I get you a drink, Charlie?
”
Kiffer continued in his jovial
manner.

“
No, I
’
m fine thanks.
”

“
What do you think of the motor, Charlie? She
’
s a beauty, isn
’
t she?
”

“
Very nice.
”

This old pals act was not going to last long, this was surely just an
act before he started electrocuting me or removing my teeth, one by
one with pliers. Whilst he was being pleasant though, Kiffer wanted to
recount a story of his entrepreneurial endeavours.

“
I was from a poor upbringing, Charl
ie. Eldest of seven kids, five
boys and two girls. My Dad was a docker, a drinker and a hard man.
He used to drown people
’
s unwanted kittens. My mother was, and still
is, a frail woman, five foot tall in heels and as soft as oven baked butter.
Every rags to riches story has a lucky break and my lucky break came in
the form of death, my father
’
s death, I would not be the wealthy man I
am today, if my Dad had not died of a heart attack at forty three years
old, when I was just a boy of fifteen.

Once Dad died, someone needed
to step up to the plate, to keep the eight of us fed and as the oldest, I
knew it was my responsibility. I left school within a week of the funeral
and started labouring, but it was long hours for crap pay and I knew we
were never going to survive on what I was bringing in.

A couple of weeks into the job, I sat down one evening with Mum,
to talk about how we were going to make ends meet. In the course of
that conversation, it came out that Mum had been left about a grand from some shitty little life policy Dad had. I
persuaded Mum, and bear in mind that I was only fifteen years old
at the time, that the only way we could survive, would be if she handed
over that grand to me and I put it to work. She trusted me, Charlie,
with the only money she had.
That
’
s when I started lending money. I packed in labouring,
started going door to door in our road. During the day. I offered to
lend housewives or
‘
doleys
’
money until the next childrens allowance
payment came in, or the next dole money or their husband
’
s next pay
packet. That
’
s how it started, lend twenty quid, a week later get
£
25
back, no paperwork, everything done on trust. As time passed, my confidence grew. I stopped just lending to the
housewives and unemployed folk of our road in Walton and began to 
branch out. I started moving further and f
urther afield, always the same
tactics though, short-term loans, small sums, always less than
£
100 a
time and re-claim the loan plus 25% extra, within a fortnight. I always
managed to get my money, until I came across Kenny Beagrie.

Kenny Beagrie was a long distance lorry driver. Kenny
’
s problem
was that when he wasn
’
t working, he was a total pisshead. A twenty
pints a day man. He was in his early fifties, divorced, someone told me
his wife went off with his best mate whilst he was on a job to Berlin,
fat, balding, heavily tattooed and not a g
reat looker. This man loved to
drown his sorrows, so he had come to me to borrow
£
100 with a promise
that he would pay me back after a four day work trip to Northern
France. He did
pay me back too,
good as g
old. Three days after arriving
back though, he was knocking on my door again, asking for
£
200 this
time.
£
200 was more than I had ever lent to an individual before. Kenny
explained he had a ten day trip sorted down to Madrid, which would be
paying handsomely and he
’
d pay me back as soon as he arrived home. He said he
’
d make it worth my while and would pay me
£
300 back. I got
greedy, Charlie, I had seven others to feed as well as myself, so against
my better judgement, I ran with it.

A couple of weeks later, when I had heard Kenny was back from
Spain and had been spotted in several
local pubs, I called round at
his house one Saturday lunchtime. He opened the door, stinking of
booze,

“
What do you want?
”
he said to me.

“
I
’
ve come to get my
£
300.
”
I told him.

At this point, Charlie, he made a fateful error. As you know, I am
the best, politest man on earth to people who treat me right, but if you
cross me, I can be a mad fucker!

“
What
£
300?
”
h
e said. Could you believe that?
He was denying
all knowledge.

“
I lent you
£
200 a fortnight ago, Kenny. You said you would give me
£
300 back, when you came back from Madrid. I want it, Kenny.
”
“
Fuck off, Cuntington! I owe you nothing. I only leant money off
you once and I
’
ve paid you back. Now piss off and let me get back to
bed.
”

“
Borrowed money.
”
I said, it annoyed me when people muddled up
their lending and borrowing,
“
you borrowed money, you did not lend it, you borrowed it. Give it me back!
”

“
Piss off!
”
he said.

Kenny Beagrie slammed his door in my face. Kenny Beagrie was a
fool to cross me, Charlie. I knocked on his door again, he opened his door and I stared him straight in the eye.
“
You
’
d better give me that
£
300,
Kenny!
”

He started pushing me, Charlie! He came straight out his front
door, into the road and started prodding my chest. No-one prods Simon
Cunnington.

“
Or what Cuntington? Or what?
”
Kenny Beagrie was saying,
“
look
at you! Fifteen years old and a seven stone weakling! I told you to PISS
OFF! If I ever see you around here again, Cuntington, I will take
great pleasure in kicking every last bit of shit out of your skinny little
body!
”

I went home, Charlie, took stock and ran with Plan B. I filled a bag
with stones and half-bricks and about one o
’
clock in the morning, I went
round to his road and sat on the floor, about a dozen doors down, on
the other side of the road. About two o
’
clock, Kenny Beagrie staggered
up his road, I
’
d heard he used to go to
“
The Melrose
”
for lock-ins, so
I knew he
’
d be coming back legless. I watched him struggle with his
key in the door, but didn
’
t make a move, I just watched him. I saw the
lights in his house go on and then ten minutes later, saw them go off
again. Half an hour later, when I was sure he
’
d be fast asleep, I started
banging on his door, making a right old racket. Once again, the lights
came back on. I could hear him muttering,

“
What the fuck
’
s going on? It
’
s the middle of the fucking night!
”

             
The hall light came on and then he opened the front door with just
a dressing gown on.

“
Cuntington! I warned you not to come here!
”
he sneered.

“
I want my money, Kenny!
”
I said.

“
There is no money!
”

Kenny Beagrie tried to shut the door, but he was drunk, rotten
drunk and his reactions were slow. As he tried to push it shut, I kicked
it open and before he knew what was happening, I swung that bag of
bricks and rocks and it hit him, right on the top of his head. For a split
second, he just looked at me, like I was insane, then he put his hand to his head, inspected it, his hand was full of blood and he just dropped to
the ground like a tall tree beaten by a lumberjack.

I went into his house. Shut his door behind me. Went upstairs,
found his bedroom, then found a brown envelope in his bedside drawer,
opened it, saw there was about a grand in there, stuffed it in my pocket
and then left. I had gloves on, so left no fingerprints and threw the
bloodied bag with the rocks in, into the Mersey. I heard the next day
that Kenny Beagrie had been found dead.

I must admit, Charlie, I felt no guilt. If that fucker had paid me
back his debt to me, he would still be alive now. Same goes for everyone
since. I
’
m not looking for trouble, I just need a deal to be honoured, to
be shown the respect I feel I deserve.
”

As Kiffer
’
s story finished, we came to a stand still at Clieve
s
Hill.
Perfect timing. I think I had been duly warned. Kiffer
’
s henchmen
disembarked, as did the driver, leaving Kiffer and I alone in the limo.

“
Tell me what
’
s happened, Charlie. You
’
re a family man, like me.
Explain to me how things have spun so far out of control.
”

             
“
It
’
s the horses, Kiffer. I
’
ve had some bad luck. Real bad luck.
”

             
Kiffer was unsympathetic.