Forever Is Over (106 page)

For a while after that story was told, the Spin Doctors
“
How Could You
Want Him When You Know You Could Have Me
”
became my most
listened to tune. No idea why!

At the end of the story, with three minutes still before the end of
lunch hour, my anger, I supposed spawned by jealousy, could contain
itself no longer.

“
Kelly, this Richie, may or may not know it, but he is, without
doubt, the biggest loser in the entire world, because he has lost your love.
Don
’
t demean yourself by ever going back there again. There
’
re
plenty of
decent blokes out there!
”

And I
’
m one of them, Kelly, I
’
m one of them!
Kelly looked solemn.
“
Do you not think though, Roddy, that everyone has one person
that they are destined to be with?
”

“
Who do you think I am, Kelly? Barbara Cartland?Of course not!
”

             
I did though. I felt I was destined to be with Kelly. Destiny does
not always prevail. I felt like Buttons to Kelly
’
s Cinderella. Buttons
lusts after Cinderella, but she buggers off with Prince Charming! I hate
Cinderella! She
’
s a bad role model. She bases romantic feelings on looks
and money when there
’
s a perfectly good, poor bloke there with a fine sense of humour. In my mind,
Cinderella is a class traitor.

             
“
I do.
”
Kelly replied, almost dewy eyed.

“
So are you just going to sit on this road, once a year forever then?
When you
’
re eighty, hobbling along the road on your walking stick, he
will probably drive past you in his sports car, with a twenty five year old
dolly bird on each arm!
”

“
No,
”
Kelly replied, checking her watch to see if lunch time was
officially over,
“
this July I am heading up there for one last time. I
’
m
putting my heart in the hands of fate. If Richie
’
s there, it
’
s meant to
be. If he
’
s not, I am not going to track him down. Five years is long
enough.
”

‘
Five years is four years too long!
’
I thought. If I was Kelly, I reckon
I would have gone up there just the once.

“
Oh well!
”
I said jokingly,
“
if he
’
s not there and you need someone
for that rebound relationship, just let me know! I
’
ll drop everything,
including my pants!
”

“
What are you like?
”

Kelly laughed as she stood up to leave the
staff kitchen. She thought I wasn
’
t serious, which was what I wanted to
imply, but in truth, I was deadly serious. I decided at that moment, to
make an addition to my prayers. From then on, each night, I continued
to pray that every day I would have the same lunch hour as Kelly, but I
also prayed that, come 4
th
July, Prince Dick Charming did not turn up on the
“
Sunny Road
”
.

In life there are winners, there are losers and then there are people
who spend their life ducking and diving, flitting from the edge of heaven
to the edge of disaster and back again. I was one of th
e duckers and divers.

I
was into my horses. Horse racing enthusiasts love horse racing.
They have an in depth understanding of the
“
Sport of Kings
”
. They
care what happens to horses. They mourn the death of a racehorse as
though it was a family member or a close personal friend. They have
an encyclopaedic knowledge of the horse racing calendar. The National
Hunt crowd go racing in tweed, some of the flat racing chaps will go in
top hat and tails. From the moment they emerge from the birth canal,
they have an awareness of horse racing terminology, such as
‘
lost an
iron
’
,
‘
on and off the bit
’
, or
‘
off the bridle
’
.

I was into my horses, but I was not a horse racing enthusiast. I was
a gambler. I belonged in a smoke filled, tacky bookmakers in any town
or city throughout the length and breadth of Britain. I have never sat
on a horse in my life. The terminology baffled me for years and to be
frank, if a horse died, I only cared if I
’
d had money on it. Why should
I have been sentimental about horses? They eat horse in France and
apparently despite their size, they are far less intelligent than your
average dog. My interest in horses was purely a financial one. I was not
in love with horses, I was in love wth gambling. When the horses won
for me, gambling was my best friend. When the horses fell at the last
fence when still in with a chance of winning or got touched off by a
nose when I had lumped on large, gambling became my worst enemy.
I knew every bookie in Ormskirk, most in the North West of England
and some from further afield. Whenever any of them drove past me in
their Audis and Mercs, I always thought,
‘
I paid for that!
’

Gambling was my drug of choice.  Nothing could beat that
adrenalin rush from outwitting the bookies, handing them a tenner in
the morning, then collecting a couple of hundred back in the afternoon.
Obviously, like 98% of gamblers, the bad days far outweighed the good,
but you have to be optimistic to gamble, no matter how bad a day you
have had, no matter what financial losses you have had to endure, you
always think things will be different the next day. Every race is a puzzle
with an answer. Unfortunately, during 1996, my losses were always
going to be re-couped the next day and then the next day and then
the next day. The sun was always going to be coming out the following
day. Sadly, the more I lost, the more I put on to try and win it back.
Somewhere along the line, you should just call it a day and limit your
losses, but that
’
s hard for gamblers to do, as I say, we
’
re an optimistic
bunch, the next big win is always so close you can smell it.

Kiffer entered my life through gambling. I met him initially, a few
years before that fateful 1996, in the
Dog & Gun, in Aughton. It must
have been about 1990, I did not know it was Kiffer at the time, I only
knew him by reputation back then, not by looks. Had I known, I would
not have borrowed a penny off him. He was only a young guy back then,
not much older than my daughter, Helen, but he was already building up
a reputation as a headcase. Stolen cars, drug deals, turning dirty money
clean - Kiffer had his dirty fingers into a lot of crooked pies, but when
I first met him, I just presumed he was a flash young bloke with a bit of
money, a bit of money that he was prepared to lend to the likes of me.

I was a Sales Rep in insurance, covered a big area around North
West England across from Liverpool to Manchester and then the whole
way up to Carlisle. Sometimes it was great, but in hard economic times,
some people would rather have enough money for their daily pack of
fags than their life cover, so if their policies lapsed, I had to deal with the
insurance brokers who had their commission
‘
clawed back
’
off them. At
times it was stressful, during these times I relieved my stress by nipping
into the bookies during my lunch hour and then I tended to stop off for
a pint of brown bitter on my way home. The
‘
Dog & Gun
’
in Aughton
was my usual haunt and my mate, Dave was often there. Dave was a
milkman, he would generally start his round at three in the morning,
so if he wanted a couple of pints, he tended to nip out to
‘
The Dog
’
late
in the afternoon or early in the evening. Dave is into his horses too, at
the time, his son was an up and coming National Hunt jockey, who was
making a name for himself on the
‘
Point to Point
’
circuit, so often Dave
would pass me a tip. One Friday afternoon, Dave was sat in
‘
The Dog
’
having a pint of mild and as soon as I walked in, he said,

“
Charlie, I was hoping you
’
d come in! I
’
ve got a surefire winner
for you tomorrow at Newton Abbott,
‘
Red Nosed Knight
’
. You need
to lump on, Charlie, our Joe says it will win by a distance. The trainer apparently has it in peak condition and it
’
s stepping up to three miles on good ground for the first time. He says it will definitely stay. It
’
ll be
a real bookie basher for you, this one.
”

“
Dave, I
’
d love to lump on,
”
I said,
“
you know there
’
s nothing I like
better than a decent bet, but things are pretty tight right now. It
’
s hard
enough having four kids, but with one at Uni, it
’
s even tougher. I
’
m just
going to have to put a few quid on this one.
”

“
Our Joe doesn
’
t get these tips wrong very often!
”

“
I know that, Dave, but what can I do? Unless I rob a bank, I just
can
’
t afford to.
”

This was the moment I met Kiffer. He arrived like a fairy godfather
or, with hindsight, like a Godfather. Kiffer was sat at the other end of
the bar, drinking a Mexican bottled lager with a slice of lime in the top,
not a standard tipple of choice in
‘
The Dog
’
. He wasn
’
t tall, but thick
set, with a couple of days dark growth on his face and sporting the latest
designer tracksuit. He spoke with a soft Liverpool accent.

“
What
’
s the story then, Gents?
”
he asked.

Dave immediately clocked who he was and became uncomfortable
and hesitant.

“
I was just
…
erm..telling my mate here, Simon, about a horse that
’
s
running tomorrow.
”

“
Going to win then, is it? Worth a bit of a punt?
”

“
I think it might do quite well,
”
Dave replied, suddenly a lot more
cautious about its chances.

“
What did you say it was called?
”

“
Red Nosed Knight.
”

“
And are you boys both backing it?
”

“
Erm
…
.just a small wager,
”
Dave answered shakily,
“
you never
know what can happen with horses, unreliable creatures. I might just
put a fiver on for a bit of an interest.
”