My Liverpool Home (31 page)

Anfield became a place of solace for the families, a haven for them to come to talk and grieve. The families were so strong, often dealing with the tragic circumstances by making wry remarks about their lost loved ones’ obsession with Liverpool. ‘He’d be gutted if he knew we’re in here,’ one relative said to me. ‘He’s a miserable sod but he’ll be happy now that he can look down from heaven and watch every game for nothing,’ another said. Visiting Anfield was an incredibly therapeutic experience for them. The families knew they were surrounded by people who cared, who understood their loss. At that stage the parents didn’t have a body to grieve over – many of the bodies were not immediately returned to the bereaved, an unbelievably inhumane decision by the authorities that still rankles to this day. They’d seen their loved one’s body through glass in the morgue, in that gym at Hillsborough. The police even retained clothing and personal effects. Why would they keep the clothes? So many questions have still to be answered about Hillsborough.

Standing in the lounge, trying to comfort the relatives, I listened to so many heart-breaking stories, hearing from Trevor Hicks about his Sophie’s Choice. Should he go with his daughter in the ambulance, or stay with his other daughter, lying on the pitch? No father should go through that hell. I just couldn’t take in the sheer horror of the stories being related in the lounge. The relatives talked of the desperate search through the bodies lined up in the gym, and the anger at not being able to take them home. Post-mortems, police investigations and bureaucratic red-tape made them feel the Establishment was against them, and as a result they turned even more to Liverpool Football Club for support.

‘Just tell us if there’s anything we can do in any way, shape or form,’ I said to Trevor and the rest of the relatives. Some wanted an item of Liverpool kit, so we raided the kit room, giving everything to the relatives. Some wanted a book, an old programme, some keepsake, anything with Liverpool’s Liver Bird on it, so we emptied the store-room. Some of the lads recorded messages for the fans lying in comas in Sheffield hospitals, saying a few words the medical staff felt might trigger a positive reaction. ‘Come on, you great lump, you can’t lie in bed all day,’ was one message from Macca.

The players were all shocked by the newspaper photographs of fans with their faces squashed against the fences, particularly the picture of two girls, Debbie and Lisa, who used to stand outside Melwood asking for autographs. We knew them, waved to them and to see them in this terrible crush was unbearable. Somehow, and I just don’t know how, Debbie and Lisa survived that death-trap.

Emotionally drained, I retreated to my office, sat at my desk and knew there were calls to make, particularly to Ray Lewis. People overlooked that Ray was in the middle of the tragedy, that he’d witnessed events that would psychologically scar any man. Ray was from a village called Great Bookham, which I always found rather appropriate for a referee, so I looked up his number in Surrey.

‘Ray, it’s Kenny Dalglish. I’m just calling to see how you are,’ I said. Our conversation was short because neither of us wanted to relive what we’d seen but I gained the impression that Ray appreciated Liverpool were thinking of him and his welfare. We all had each other at Anfield. Ray had nobody, so it was important I made contact, showing some compassion.

The phone started ringing, everybody offering support. Ian Woosnam called, offering to raise money by playing for birdies at Hillside Golf Club. Woosie’s from Oswestry, quite close to Liverpool, and he wanted to help in some way. Calls buzzed in from all over football. Craig Johnston rang from Australia, saying he was flying back. Other managers called, knowing that Hillsborough could so easily have happened to their fans.

‘Anything you need, Kenny, I’m here for you,’ said Alex Ferguson. Then he made an inspired suggestion. ‘I’ll send some fans over to pay tribute.’ The rivalry between followers of Manchester United and Liverpool runs very deep, and is often very bitter, so it was a marvellous idea of Fergie’s to get some of his fans to come across and stand shoulder to shoulder with Liverpool fans in their hour of need. As long as I live, I’ll never forget Fergie’s exceptional gesture. It didn’t surprise me, though, because Fergie is absolutely magnificent in any crisis. He’s famous in football for being straight on the phone, offering assistance or advice.

Fergie’s start at Old Trafford coincided with my time as manager of Liverpool and, inevitably, we were depicted in the Press as existing with daggers drawn. Of course, the rivalry was strong, and Fergie was somebody I wanted to beat, somebody I stood up to when he said something I disagreed with. We were competitors but that didn’t mean we fought all the time. We’d have a drink after games, share pleasantries, talk about our shared roots on Clydeside. Alex hailed from a similar background to me. He came from a strong Glasgow family and that gave him principles for life, including ‘look after your own and look after other people’. Alex had his brother Martin working at United, doing a fantastic job scouting for players.

Marina’s family was also old-fashioned Glaswegian, also a tight unit. Her father went out to work, her mother brought up the kids, and was really supportive of everyone in the family. If anybody needed help, she was the first to offer. Marina just headed to Anfield, talking to the families all day, her strength of character proving a constant source of warmth. It was not only the bereaved she talked to – 766 people were injured at Hillsborough and some of them came in with their relatives.

Later that Monday, leaving the wives to their healing work, the players boarded the coach for the sad return to Sheffield. At three o’clock, we arrived at the North General Hospital in Sheffield for an experience that was strange, humbling and distressing. I saw one kid, Lee Nichol, only 14, hooked up to a life-support machine. I stared at him, not understanding why somebody without a mark or bruise on him could be clinically dead. Not a mark on him. Not one mark. It just didn’t make sense. The medical experts explained that this is what happens with asphyxiation. The brain becomes starved of oxygen and just cuts out. Lee was pulled alive from the crush on the Leppings Lane End but had already slipped into a coma. He died later, the ninety-fifth to pass away. Hillsborough was Lee’s first away game. Shocking.

Moving between the wards, struggling to comprehend, I was guided for part of the way by Dr David Edbrooke, a consultant anaesthetist. Leading me to the bedside of 20-year-old Sean Luckett, Dr Edbrooke explained that Sean had come off the ventilator but was still in a coma. Sean’s mother sat anxiously by her son’s side. Nodding to her, Dr Edbrooke and I stood by Sean.

‘Sean, here’s Kenny Dalglish to see you,’ said Dr Edbrooke. ‘It’s Kenny Dalglish.’ Suddenly, Sean’s eyes opened. Amazing. I couldn’t believe it.

‘Hello, Sean, I know you’re going to make it through,’ I said. Sean was stirring now, waking from this coma. Mrs Luckett let out a cry and leant forward over her son.

‘Listen, this is a special moment for you, I’ll leave you to it,’ I said and hurried from the room. A mother reunited with her son was a private moment.

When the story went around, some people credited me with having an influence on Sean’s recovery. I know the mind works in strange ways, and some medics argue that, in a coma, it reacts to words, but I thought it was just coincidence that Sean woke up then. Whatever the cause, I was just happy Sean was back with us. Before we left the North General, I popped back in to shake his hand. Another boy, Paul Johnson, a 15-year-old, improved while the team were wandering through the wards. Even if none of the kids had woken up, it was right for us to go.

All of the players found the visit difficult, particularly those with young children. ‘What would I be like if my son or daughter was lying there’ was the thought thudding through everybody’s head. The trip raised so many questions and emotions. One of the guys in the hospital was lucky. He’d been crushed a bit but was OK and was well into recovery. ‘When are you making your comeback?’ he asked Al. That comment meant he’d missed the team announcement, the warm-up, the players coming out and the six minutes of play, an indication to me of how early the crush began at Hillsborough.

With all this emotion going on, I was horrified to hear the FA set Liverpool a deadline of 7 May for playing the semi. Play or withdraw. How callous could they get? Get over your grieving by 7 May or you’ll be expelled. That craven statement was made without consultation with Liverpool, who were still reeling from the disaster and would never, ever be railroaded by a bunch of uncaring administrators in London. Graham Kelly should have been more discreet, working behind the scenes with Liverpool, communicating with PBR, mentioning the importance of the competition continuing without being seen to deliver ultimatums. I had no issue with the FA in general, or Kelly in particular, more with some of the unsympathetic officials within the organisation. Kelly, a spokesman in many ways, was only making public what the FA decided in their committee rooms and so was undeserving of all the bile poured over him. Some of the other officials within Lancaster Gate, particularly those on the FA board who seemed so impatient to get on with their precious Cup, should have shared some of the flak aimed at Kelly.

Uefa didn’t cover themselves in glory, either. Their president, Jacques Georges, described Liverpool fans as ‘beasts waiting to charge into the arena’, a despicable, provocative comment that brought more pain to the families of those who died at Hillsborough. Georges’ words brought shame on him and embarrassment on Uefa. As the man whose organisation decided the sub-standard Heysel was suitable for a European Cup final, who ignored pleas to move that game, Georges made some atrocious decisions in his career, didn’t he? Maybe that’s why Uefa’s president took the opportunity to divert blame on to others. In Georges’ eyes, Liverpool fans had a bad reputation but his testimony was tainted beyond credibility.

Even worse than Jacques Georges, if that were possible, was Kelvin MacKenzie, newspaper editor. When Marina and I drove into Anfield on the morning of Wednesday, 19 April, first checking on the Kop, which had even more flowers and tributes, we found the staff and the families enraged by a piece in the paper. Its infamous front-page headline, ‘THE TRUTH’, caused hurt and outrage by accusing fans of pick-pocketing the dying and urinating on the bodies. Just unbelievable. Liverpool punters went ballistic, some of them burning the paper on the news-stands, others coming up to Anfield to talk about their anger. The following day, MacKenzie rang the club. Anfield’s receptionist, Karen, buzzed me.

‘Kenny, it’s Kelvin MacKenzie on the line.’

‘You’d better put him on to PBR, Karen.’

‘Peter says you have to speak to him.’

‘Thanks! Put him through.’ MacKenzie came on the line.

‘Kenny, we have a bit of a problem,’ he said.

‘Aye.’

‘How can we resolve it?’

‘See that headline you put in, ‘THE TRUTH’? Just have another one, as big: ‘WE LIED. SORRY’.

‘Kenny, we can’t do that.’

‘I can’t help you then,’ I replied and put down the phone. MacKenzie simply didn’t realise the offence he’d caused to a grieving city. A few minutes later, the governor of Walton Prison phoned.

‘Look, Kenny, the inmates are getting really restless with the stuff that’s been in the papers. Can you come up to the prison and speak to them?’

‘OK, I’ll be there at nine tomorrow morning.’

What was I doing now? Going into a jail? But I had to. Liverpool was a city in ferment and I had to do everything to bring some calm and hope. If there was a threat of a riot in Walton Prison, I had to go there.

Driving to Anfield early on the Friday, I made a detour via Walton. Looking up at the big door, I whispered to myself, ‘Bloody hell. What am I doing here?’ Entering the prison was deeply unsettling. I heard the door slam shut behind me, the clank of keys as the warder turned the lock and then the polite instruction to follow another guard. I heard the quiet words of prisoners, working on the lawn, hoeing the grass. ‘How you doing Kenny?’ they asked. Badly. This experience of incarceration was awful, the feeling that there was no escape, that the outside world was blocked off. Passing through more gates, hearing them close behind me, I understood how prison sent some people mad.

One final door opened and I was led into the chapel. The inmates sat there, totally silent, their heads turning to see me. Suddenly, they began clapping, which startled me. It seemed to me they just wanted to demonstrate their respect towards Liverpool Football Club and the way the club were trying to deal with Hillsborough. The governor took me to one side.

‘Kenny, they’ve all seen the paper so anything you can say to pacify them would be magnificent. If you can just reassure them.’ I tried.

‘Listen,’ I said to the inmates, ‘what you’ve read is not “the truth”. That never happened. Please, I know it’s difficult for you in here and you want to be with your loved ones outside, but please stay calm and know that Liverpool are working night and day to help the families.’ I explained how the relatives were coming up to Anfield, how they were being looked after by the players and their wives. I told them how Anfield was now a shrine, a fitting tribute to the fans who died.

When I finished talking, I couldn’t get out quickly enough, through all the clanking gates and out into the fresh air and freedom. I almost ran. But being inside Walton Prison emphasised the damage wrought by one newspaper’s lies. Their vile insinuation emanated from the word of an unidentified policeman. Well, if they had information, why hide it? If they or the police had proof of mass drunkenness, show the world the evidence. They couldn’t because the claim was fabricated and was comprehensively dismissed by Lord Chief Justice Taylor. In his report, I noted one particularly damning sentence that read: ‘I am satisfied on the evidence that the great majority were not drunk. Some officers, seeking to rationalise their loss of control, overestimated the drunken element of the crowd.’ Taylor’s judgement was spot on. The police tried to divert attention from their own mismanagement. Some Liverpool fans would have had a couple of pints, the usual match-day convention with friends, and a few might have been inebriated but not many. As the gruesome succession of autopsies revealed, some of the bodies contained some alcohol but not enough to impair judgement. Remember, a good proportion of the fans were driving. As an area, Hillsborough wasn’t packed with pubs while the few local off-licences told Taylor they’d not sold huge amounts.