Forever Is Over (15 page)

“
If you come, James. You
’
re not drinking.
”

“
I wouldn
’
t want to drink. I
’
m fifteen. I act my age, I don
’
t act
younger by trying to act older.
”

This was a pop at me. Jim had perfected this art.

“
And you may see things you
’
ve never seen before
”
, I added.

I meant
like glue sniffing and pot smoking not breasts and naked women. If there
were any of them about, I was confident Jim would not be sampling their
wares
.

“
That would be a good thing!
”
James replied with a smile.

Damn!

“
I
’
m not sure this would be a good idea, Jim
”
.

Caroline pulled rank and made the decision.

“
Ok, James. You can come. Be careful though. No pot. No beer.
No smart arse comments and if there
’
s any sign of trouble, get out of
the way fast!
”

“
No problem.
”

My memories of Park Pool 1982 came flooding back.

“
And Jim
…”

“
Yes, Richie.
”

“
If you mention to anyone, anyone, that I wet my bed until I was
ten, I swear I
’
ll kill you.

The Birch
’
s house wasn
’
t massive. It was a reasonable sized semi,
but if everyone at school who said they were going to this party had
turned up, in addition to Joey
’
s older brothers mates, we
’
d have been like
sardines in a tin (without the brine and the tomato ketchup). Everyone
didn
’
t turn up though. Whether it was the bad weather or parents
banning them or kids talking the talk but not walking the walk, I don
’
t
know. It turned out there were only about fifty people ther
e, probably
about forty lads and ten girls, including Amy, Kelly and myself.

Going into that house felt like how I would imagine it would feel if
you were a singer on
“
Top of The Pops
”
, as you had to wade through a
massive cloud of smoke, only difference being that the BBC had smoke
machines whilst the Birch party had massive spliffs. Pot was fairly rife
around our way, but the dealers must have made a tidy sum from the
Birch
’
s and their invited guests, as there was more weed there, than
in the garden of a derelict stately home. I
’
m not kidding you, the fire
brigade probably inhaled less smoke on a busy shift than Amy, Kelly
and I inhaled in our first two minutes at Chez Birch. Everyone just
seemed to be rolling up, smoking pot or giving the impression they
had had too much already. Of the three of us, Kelly looked the least
shocked as we surveyed the downstairs rooms for signs of sobriety. We
didn
’
t find it. The only sober people we came across, were those who
arrived after us and the majority of them were stoned before you could
say
“
wacky baccy
”
!

We found Joey Birch sat at the kitchen table, spliff in one hand,
can of lager in the other. There were several other D-Gas lads gathered
around the table with him, they were all singing along to Pink Floyd
’
s
“
Wish You Were Here
”
or at least they were singing it, there was no
music to accompany them. Joey looked the least ill, which wasn
’
t saying
much as he looked wrecked! He stood up uneasily, in an attempt to
greet us. He looked like he had just twizzed round in circles twenty times at full pelt.

“
Hello Amy! Hello Jemma!
”

He was puzzled by Kelly, a think bubble came out of the top of his
head which said,
“
I know you from somewhere but I am too wrecked to work out where!
”

So he just mumbled,

“
Hello thingermebobby!
”

Joey then allowed himself an embarrassed giggle.

I
explained.

“
Joey, this is Kelly, my sister
…
Kelly, this is Joey. He
’
s normally not
quite so off his head!
”

“
Hi Joey!
”

“
Yes, I
’
m high! Very, very high! Can you tell?
”

It wasn
’
t hard to tell, his eyes were pink like someone had been using
them as pallets to mix their red and white paint. His speech was slow
and slurry. Amy looked concerned.

“
Joey, sit back down! Take it easy!
”

He was embarrassing! He tried to make two peace signs, one with
each hand, but as he did it, he dropped his can of lager and his spliff

onto the kitchen floor and then got down on all fours as he retrieved the
spliff from the pool of lager. When he shakily stood back up, moving
like Trevor Berbick at the end of his bout with Mike Tyson, Joey
’
s
jeans had two large, wet, circular patches around the knees. He berated
himself jovially.

“
Man, I
’
m gone!
”

I didn
’
t tolerate potheads and pissheads well. Perhaps its because of a
childhood spent having to deal with Vomit Breath and her alcoholic mis-
adventures. I didn
’
t have the appetite to make small talk with drunks
and druggies. I hadn
’
t written six hundred lines and helped Kelly escape
arrest to giggle uncontrollably about pigeons. As Amy transformed into
Florence Nightingale, collecting up abandoned half-full cans, pouring
their contents down the sink then pouring a glass of water for Joey and
dabbing his forehead with some damp k
itchen roll, I slipped out the
kitchen, pulling Kelly out with me. The lounge looked more inviting.

There were more familiar faces in there, but these lot were Sixth Form
“
Groovy Gangers
”
, the type who woul
d smoke pot but not inhale and
drink just a few cans rather than a D-Gas member who would drink
until it returned as projectile vomit. Thus, the
“
Groovy Gangers
”
looked
relatively sober in comparison with the D-Gas kitchen boys.

There were about a dozen people all told in the lounge, about seven
or eight were sprawled out on the Birch
’
s two settees and the rest sat
cross legged on the floor with the exception of Eddie Garland, an Upper
Sixth Form mate of Billy McGregor
’
s who was stood up, centre of
attention, finishing some crude joke about golf, prostitutes and business
men on a trip to Japan.

“
What do you mean, wrong hole?
”

Half the lads laughed, the other
’
s smiled and the two girls in
there, Sally Park and Jane Makerfield from Lower Sixth, looked at
each other like they didn
’
t understand but would rather not ask for an
explanation.

Eddie Garland was from Billy McGregor
’
s card school gang. Equally
cocky, equally good looking and to-nig
ht reeking of Kouros. His hair
was petrol black and slicked back with Brylcreem like Bono
’
s on the
front of
“
The Joshua Tree
”
CD. To still look good with a hairstyle like
that, said a lot. If everyone was an animal and their height was based on
their levels of arrogance, Eddie Garland would be a giraffe.

“
Wonderful to see you, ladies. John, Max, budge up on that sofa
and let Jemma and
her mate sit down.
”

I was concerned the vultures would swoop if the
“
Groovy Gangers
”
thought Kelly was my mate.

“
She
’
s not my mate, she
’
s my little sister. You don
’
t have to budge
up, we
’
re fine on the floor.
”

Kelly whispered,
“
Thanks a lot, Jem!
”

We sat on the floor. My backside and particularly my thighs
immediately felt wet. Eddie smirked.

“
You
’
d have been better on the sofa! Everyone else on that floor
has been like a cow protecting a dry patch! I
’
ve lost count of how many
drinks have been spilt on there!
”

“
Thanks for telling us after we sat down, Eddie!
”

Eddie ran his hand through his hair.

”
Don
’
t blame me! I told you to sit on the settee! If you want anyone
to dry your arse, Jemma, let me know!
”

I smiled at him sarcastically,

“
I thought you only kissed Billy
’
s arse, Eddie!
”

There was a collective,
“
OOOOHHH
!
”

Eddie ignored my retaliatory attack.

“
Right
…
who
’
s got any good jokes to tell?
”

Eddie Garland and his modesty-
challenged mates then preceded
to bore us senseless for the next three quarters of an hour with some appalling jokes. Amy briefly popped her head in, a couple of times, to
pass me a glass of wine and Kelly a coke in a plastic beaker, so at least
I could drown my sorrows as Eddie told countless tacky jokes about
penises, periods and
“
puppies
”
(breasts). I felt like that 19
th
Century
woman on the postcard being bored to tears by some bloke, with a
caption saying,
“
Absinthe Makes The Heart Grow Fonder
”
. A pint of
absinthe at that stage would have gone down a treat!

Through boredom and the re-emergence of a slight light headache, I
stood up, no longer caring if my backside was wet ,my leather skirt had
protected me to some degree and wandered into the study. Kelly said she was going back in the kitchen to see Amy, so I left her to her own devices, knowing she was in capable hands. In my mind, Joey Birch
’
s
house was like a full-sized
version of a Cluedo board and I suppose,
sub-consciously I was searching for someone, not a murderer though,
just a good looking lad. I had been in the kitchen, then the lounge
(is there a lounge in Cluedo? I
’
m not sure) so next stop was the study.
From the shouts and laughs that were filtering down the stairs, there
were evidently a fair few people upstairs, but I wanted to check all the
downstairs rooms out first before venturing up there. So, I went through
a third door downstairs into Joey
’
s Dad
’
s study.
The study was compact. It was crammed full of people, the majority
of them standing. I had to wait for a couple of people to move out, before
I could squeeze in to see for myself, what was going on in there. The
room itself looked like it normally contained little more than a desk
with a computer on, a chair, a few framed photos of the Birch children
looking innocent, well before they were gripped by motorbikes and
marijuana, and a drinks cabinet. After the karaoke Pink Floyd in the
kitchen and the Bernard Manning gags in the lounge, it was surreal that
the entertainment in the study was being provided by a game of chess.
Sitting around the desk were four people I recognised, James, Richie
and Caroline Billingham and Joey
’
s brother, Nick Birch. Paul Murphy
from Upper Sixth, an overweight boy with dark greasy hair and eczema,
was stood next to the Birch
’
s drink cabinet, mixing various drinks from
the cabinet into a large glass.