Forever Is Over (85 page)

Jemma and I ran out of the bar, through reception, out the front
entrance and into a wet and windy Lord Street. Turning left, we sprinted
along the pavement, gaining an ever increasing lead on our pursuing
pair, before taking a left into one of the side streets, packed with
amusement arcades and then an immediate right into a road lined with
bed and breakfast guest houses, the majority with neon blue
“
vacancy
”
signs lit up.

“
Have we lost them?
”
Jemma panted.

“
I
’
ve no idea! Quick! Nip in here!
”

We jogged up the path of the nearest
‘
B&B
’
which had a picture of
a palm tree in the bay window and a sign above the front door saying,
“
Tropical Paradise Guest House
”
. Even in the near darkness, it was
evident a lick of paint would not go amiss. As we entered,
‘
Tropical
Paradise
’
, a white poodle, with a pink
bow around its neck, ran up to
greet us, wagging her tail. The long, narrow hallway smelt damp and
the wallpaper was a 1970
’
s floral design that was peeling at the corners.
There was a reception hatch on the left wall, that was closed and on the
right, a staircase with a carpet that was patchy rather than threadbare.
Southport had some great Guest Houses but this wasn
’
t one of them.

“
I need to go and dry off, again!
”
Jemma moaned,
“
and I could do
with a wee after all that excitement! Do you think we lost them?
”

             
“
I think so.
”

“
Me too! Morgan
’
s done ten years for murder, when he was in his
twenties. He strangled his ex-girlfriends new boyfriend.
”

             
“
Now you tell me! You
’
ve never been out with him, have you?
”

             
“
NO!
”

“
Good!
”

In spite of my brush with death, my penis was still sending cryptic
messages to my brain.

“
Given a convicted murderer is chasing us, do you think it
’
d be an
idea to book in here and just lay low for an hour?
”

The irony of hiding from one convicted killer by lying low with
another, had not escaped me.

“
Why not?
”
Jemma shrugged.
“
Let me go and find a toilet first!
”

             
Jemma headed up the creaking sta
ircase and not wanting to give
her the opportunity to have a change of heart about the room, I rang
the bell, on a small wooden table, outside the closed hatch. The bell was
next to a handwritten sign that said,

“
We are tending to the needs of our other guests right now. If you
require our assistance, please ring the bell and we will be with you as
soon as we can.
”

Within a minute, a small lady with wizened features emerged from a
door at the end of the hallway. She must have been well into her sixties,
wearing a pink dressing gown, fluffy pink slippers and tight rollers in
her hair. She moved towards me in tiny steps, almost shuffling, puffing
on a cigarette as she moved. She was like a miniature steam train. As she
slowly approached, the door of the
‘
Guest House
’
swung open and my
heart skipped a beat whilst my head turned. Thankfully though, I was
not confronted by Morgan and Cameron, but a tall, moustachioed, dark
haired gentleman, clad head to toe in black leather. In all likelihood, he
had just finished his Freddie Mercury tribute act in a local pub.

“
What are you after, luvvies?
”
said the smoking dwarf with a heavy
Liverpudlian accent.

“
Do you have a double room, please?
”
I asked politely.

“
Now look love,
”
she replied,
“
I
’
d love to give you a double room,
I
’
m dead liberal me, but I can
’
t. Honestly I can
’
t. It
’
s me husband, Frank,
he
’
d have me guts for garters, if I let you pair share a double room. Have
a twin or two singles, but not a double, love. He just doesn
’
t like gays.
Says it
’
s not natural. He says you shouldn
’
t be putting square pegs in
round holes.

I
’
m not like that. If God had have given me a son, I
’
d have wanted
him to be gay! Clean, tidy, polite, good taste in films and shows and
theatre, love your mothers, tidy nails, what more could a mother
want?
”

I was completely dumbfounded. I looked at her, then looked at the
fifty something year old Freddie Mercury clone standing behind me.
Luckily, at this point, Jemma started to come down the stairs.

“
I
’
m not with him
”
I exclaimed,
“
I
’
m with her!
”

I pointed towards Jemma, who was halfway down the stairs. I
’
d like
to think if I had been gay, I wouldn
’
t have chosen someone who could
have slotted right into the Village People, if you pardon the pun.

The landlady took another drag on her cigarette, which was now little more than a filter.

“
Sorry love!
”
she cackled,
“
I though
t
you and Magnum P.I were
together!
”

Our leather clad friend stayed mute, just smiling pleasantly.

“
Now, it was a double room you wanted, wasn
’
t it love?
”
Scouse Hilda continued, searching around for the guest book,
“
I know we
’
ve
got Tropical Beach available for
£
18 a night or Tropical Heat for
£
16. Which do you want?
”

“
What
’
s the difference?
”
said Jemma as she arrived alongside me.

“
Tropical Beach has an en-suite bat
hroom and a radiator. Tropical
Heat is up in the attic, so you have to use the communal bathroom,
there
’
s no central heating in the attic either, so its fan heated.
”

“
Tropical  Beach,  please!
”
 
Jemma  and  I  both  responded
simultaneously.

As the smoking antique went in search of the keys, Jemma whis
pered,

“
Good move! I
’
ve just been in the communal bathroom. It stinks!
There
’
s a floater in there too and before you say it, neither the smell
nor the floater belong to me!
”

Several years later, Jemma and I were out for the evening with two
of our friends, Dogger and Sandra. After too many wines and gins and
amarettos, the conversation sa
nk to the depths conversation often sinks
to, when drink affected. We began talking about losing our virginity
and subsequently where we first slept together, as a couple. Sandra
confessed their first time together, was in a sauna at a sports club when
things turned steamy for more than one reason.

“
What about you two? Where were you?
”
they asked.

“
Tropical Beach in Tropical Paradise,
”
I stated, without even a hint
of irony.

“
Richie! Move your head! QUICK!
”

Richie was kneeling on the floor with his head nestling in pubic hair on the rim of the toilet in the
“
Tropical Paradise
”
Guest House,
Southport. I would have loved to have taken the moral high ground from
that day forth, constantly reminding him how I had sobbed heartily into
my concrete pillow after he had thrown up moments after we made love.
Sadly, the moral high ground was a place I did not get to trample. Richie
had hurriedly dashed from the bed, with the desperate message,

“
I think I
’
m going to be sick!
”

Seconds later, my brain sent a message to my throat and mouth that
my stomach was refusing to forward my food and drink to my colon, to
package it up ready for delivery at my rear end and had instead decided
to return it to sender. Thus, I found myself kneeling down next to
Richie, like two commode devotees, retching and allowing my partially
digested lunch to join Richie
’
s for a midnight swim. As the bile and the
putrid stench left me, my eyes filled up and I started to cry.

Richie offered his sympathy.

“
Hey Jemma, don
’
t cry! It
’
s not sad, it
’
s funny. Look at the pair of
us! I
’
ve been sick too, it
’
s OK.
”

“
That
’
s not why I
’
m crying,
”
I said as I wiped my mouth and prepared
myself for a second bout of vomit,
“
I
’
m crying because I
’
m a bad person.
I hate myself, Richie. I really hate myself!
”

My hearty sobs continued. I don
’
t think I
’
d cried this month since
Jon Voigts character died in
“
The Champ
”
and little TJ tried to wake
him up.

“
Well, that
’
s ridiculous, Jemma! You
’
re a great person!
”

As expected, I threw up a second time.

“
No, I
’
m not Richie, I
’
m a bad person. That
’
s why I
’
ve just spent nearly two years in prison. That
’
s why I
’
ve just slept with my sister
’
s
ex-boyfriend. I should not be having sex with you. You do that sort of thing with my sister, not me. This isn
’
t right.
”

“
Jemma, it is right.
”

“
Well how come we both keep feeling so guilty about it? Sometimes
you feel bad about it, sometimes I do, sometimes we both do. If it was
right, we wouldn
’
t be feeling like this. Should I be jumping into bed
with my sister
’
s ex the moment I
’
m out? No, I shouldn
’
t!
”