Forever Is Over (16 page)

“
What
’
s going on?
”
I asked Paul, who was trying to look like Brian
Flanagan (Tom Cruise) in Cocktail but with his hefty frame and glasses,
looked more like a younger version of Fred from Coronation Street.

“
Its
“
Killer Chess
”
, loser has to drink this!
James Billingham is
beating everyone that takes him on! Nick
’
s taking him on now but he
’
s
getting stuffed! He
’
ll have to down this in one in a minute!
”

He pointed at the glass which was a frothy mix of Pernod, Baileys,
whisky, vodka and brandy. Paul Murphy seemed incredibly excited by
somethin
g incredibly
unexciting.

“
What if he refuses to drink it?
”

Paul Murphy looked at me as though I was the bastard child of Adolf Hitler.

“
There is no
”
w
hat if ?
”
He just has to
! I
t
’
s the rules! The reason
everyone is staggering around here looking totally battered is because Jim
Billingham is like one of those Russian or American Grandmasters!
Joey Birch fancied himself as a bit of a chess player but Jim has
beaten him three times already! You should have seen Joey, he took his
forfeits like a man! Stick around and in a couple of minutes you
’
ll get
the chance to see Nick following in his brother
’
s footsteps!
”

That explained a lot. It explained why Joey was smashed out of his
skull and it explained why Caroline Billingham had a very concerned
look on her face. Nick Birch and Caro
line Billingham were boyfriend
and girlfriend. Nick was one of Joey
’
s two older brothers, along with
Mike. I didn
’
t really know Nick, but I knew Joey idolised him and
Joey
’
s motorbike obsession stemmed from Nick and Michael
’
s interest
in bikes. I knew Nick was a heavy metal fan and I remember a rumour
went round school once that he masturbated in the smoking carriage of
the Ormskirk-Liverpool train, when he was going to see Slayer at the
Royal Court and he fired the sperm onto the ceiling, but I don
’
t know
if that was true. Probably not.

I thought Caroline Billingham was
pretty cool. Given 99% of the
girls in Sixth Form were so annoying, I
’
d have liked to have thrown
them all into the Mersey in a massive rock filled sack, this was some
achievement. The reason I liked her was that she didn
’
t try to conform
to any stereotypes, she just did as she pleased. Of all the girls I knew, if
I could have been like anyone it would have been Caroline Billingham.
Not too hip. Not too square. Not too swotty. Not a complete layabout.

I was aware that the older of her two brother
’
s, Richie, was in our
year at school. The year before Miss Caldicott inflicted Jane Eyre upon
us, we had a great English teacher called Mrs. Illingworth. We read
“
Pride and Prejudice
”
which was pretty alright really, especially when
you compare it with Jane Eyre. The male hero was Mr.Darcy. The reason
I am telling you this, was because Richie Billingham reminded me of
Mr. Darcy. He was a strong, silent type. His hair had gone really blond
(probably dyed), he had a stud earring in one of his ears and was tall
and muscular.

Richie wasn
’
t a Billy McGregor or Eddie Garland type though,
full of his own self-importance, he was pretty humble, modest and
unassuming. Most of the girls in our year and Fourth Year, had a crush
on him, but because he was so quiet, no-one really made a move on him
as they didn
’
t know what to say. I thought he was too young for me, but thought that if he got a bit of confidence and came out of his shell, then
maybe in the future something might happen.

Richie
’
s younger brother, James, however was ODD with a capital
everything! He was sarcastic. He was greasy. He was a bit whiffy. He
talked to everyone like they were intellectual inferiors. Odd, odd, odd,
odd, odd. What he was doing at a party in the first place was anyone
’
s
guess, as he would have been more at home in his bedroom listening to
depressing music like The Smiths and Spear of Destiny and drinking
a cup of tea out of a pot with a self-knitted tea cosy. The fact that he
was at the Birch
’
s party was surreal (he would never have been there if
Caroline hadn
’
t been with Nick) but the fact that he was at the Birch
’
s
party playing chess with Nick Birch, a biker pothead, was even more
bizarre.

I knew enough about chess to see Nick was in serious trouble. He
was blacks and he had a King and two pawns left, James had a queen, a
castle, two bishops, a knight and several pawns, one of which was about
to be crowned and his King. Nick was just moving his king around the
table buying time like a rabbit in a snake
’
s cage.

“
Who
’
s up next?
”
I asked Paul.

“
No-one, he
’
s beaten everyone who can play and most of them are
now too pissed and stoned to play again!
”

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“
I
’
ll play him then!
”

Paul looked at me like I had just announced I was third in line for the throne.

“
Can you play?
”

“
Of course I can. That one with the cross on its head, is that the
prawn?
”

“
That
’
s the King! The prawn!
Did you hear that, Caroline, Jemma
called the King, the prawn! Do you not know anything?
”
Caroline gave Paul a richly deserved condescending look.

“
She
’
s joking, Paul!
”

Paul looked hurt. Idiot.

“
No she wasn
’
t! Were you?
”

“
What do you think?
”

It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but Paul answered any
way.

“
I think you said it by accident!
”

“
Suit yourself. Maybe I did.
”

There must have been an unwritten law somewhere that said if you
were a lad at Ormskirk Grammar Sc
hool, when you went into Sixth
Form, you had to do a large turd, your brain must then be removed
and the turd must slot into the void where the brain once was. I reckon
the teachers then probably did a test, whereby they sliced off the top of
your head until there was a small hole at the
top, dipped their fingers
into the brain, took it out and smelt it and if it didn
’
t smell of crap, you
were sent to King George V College in
Southport! This had to be the
case as every single boy in Ormskirk Grammar School
’
s Sixth Form
had shit for brains! I was just reflecting on this when James Billingham spoke.

“
Checkmate!
”

James grinned like a baby filling his nappy.

“
Looks like you
’
re up!
”
Paul said to me in a tone that indicated my
drink was likely to be laced with his phlegm. He pushed his way into the hall.
“
Oi! Everyone! Nick
’
s turn to down his drink!
”

Loads of people suddenly emerged out of nowhere like old people on
a sunny day in Southport. They all started jostling for position, the glass
was passed to Nick and someone, probably Paul, started a chorus of,
“
Down in one! Down in one! Down in one!
”
to the tune of
“
Here
we go!
”

Nick Birch had obviously mastered this art as he tilted the glass
vertically upside down and before you could say,

“
Paul Murphy, complete tosser!
”
Nick had slammed his glass back
on the desk with a smile.
He won
’
t be smiling when he
’
s spewing up, I thought to myself,
then realised I was next and began to panic.

Paul announced me as though he was a boxing compere.

“
Ladies and gentleman, make way for the next contestant, all the way from Ormskirk, Lancashire, please give a warm Halsall welcome
to Jeeemmmmaaa
Wat - kin - son!
”

Shit! Why have I volunteered for this, I asked myself, then I
remembered where the drunken bravado had arisen from. In one of
Vomit Breath
’
s many past lives, she had been married to a geezer called
Tony. Tony was a plasterer from Leighton Buzzard and he definitely was
a geezer. He had moved up to Ormskirk after he was divorced from
Tonya, his first wife and his mate, Charlie had suggested Tony should
follow him up here for a fresh start. Charlie was a labourer and had had
a brief affair with a redcoat from Pontins in Southport and had stayed
up here, as there was plenty of building work going on in the nearby
cities.

Tony came up, married Vomit Breath and quickly moved back
South, a few years later, when he got to know the inner VB. Anyway, whilst Tony and Vomit Breath were married, his three kids, Tony Jnr,
Vanessa and Marcus would come up to stay at our house for a few days
in the summer holidays. The youngest, Marcus, was a couple of years
older than me and he got through the pain and boredom of stopping
up here by teaching me how to play chess. I was pretty good too, but
that was several years ago and I had hardly played since. A heady mix
of Thunderbirds and Piesporter had briefly persuaded me that I could
beat James Billingham. As I sat down at the desk, reality was now
telling me that I couldn
’
t. At first, I couldn
’
t even remember properly
which of the knight and the bishop moved diagonally and which moved
one step forward and two to the side, jumping over other pieces, then
I remembered the knight looked like a horse and horses jump. It was
lucky I did remember that as Paul Murphy would have had a field day
if I
’
d have asked which piece moved where!

As I was getting mentally prepared, something from the depths
of my subconscious memory banks came to me, the
“
four move mate
”
!
No doubt there is a
“
Two Move Mate
”
and a
“
Three Move Mate
”
, but
I didn
’
t remember them, at least I had managed to remember the four
move mate though!

As the guest on the table, I was able to choose which colour to
be, so I chose white. Not sure if there is a black four move mate, but I
certainly didn
’
t know it. Whites always start in chess. I was nervous.
I was a one-trick pony and the one-trick was dependent on the other
player making completely the right (or
“
wrong
”
) moves. Luckily, James
wasn
’
t really concentrating, so sportingly fell into my trap.