William

William… it was really nothing.

Oh but it was something, wasn’t it.

Someone who looks very much like this guy, has done over a hundred burglaries since Christmas. I was involved in one of them. But our connection goes back further than that. And, transcends any petty thefts he and his cronies can pull off.

Let’s get one thing clear, he doesn’t have a drugs habit. He really does just get a buzz from it. Ok, so they sell some stuff off, but they never hurt anyone, not physically anyway. They thought about all the possible scenarios, even considered a peaceful ’signature’ for their projects before realising (remembering Home Alone) that it could aid capture, and so forgot that idea quickly.

Instead, they sit around on one of their stolen TVs to watch crime shows and collect ideas, they even make notes in a little book. His three mates have been with him for years, helped him through when his Mum went away, indeed one of them came up with the idea of getting into the taxi firm for some tip-offs. They’re clever lads but never fitted in at school, outcasts who just hit it off, a bit like the Breakfast Club.

They sell most of the stuff, never keep it, even prone to giving it away at times. He spends some of the money on his mum, she doesn’t deserve it but it makes him feel better kind of… He also spends it on his beloved Blue boys, this photo was for his original application, he sits in the Gwladys Street amongst a funny group, a loud arl fella who always comes up with a clever quip when you least expect it, an ill-looking  alcoholic woman, and a quiet studenty type who rarely shouts or sings. That guy reminds him of those ones him and his mates used to torment in the Bullring, throwing fireworks, bricks at windows, bedding plants if they were stuck for projectiles. He was really young, didn’t know anything else.

Going the match makes him feel better though. Everything else goes away, for a while at least, memories fade and the world seems good.

What doesn’t feel good though is when they come close to getting caught. The fear is so intense it pierces his skin, yes it’s exciting for a short while but then the overwhelming dread takes over and he’s scared that everything could be over in a split second.

The last time it happened was just before Easter. They’d done the usual, weren’t expecting people to be in, they were meant to be away according to the taxi receptionist… so nearly got caught.

It made him think again about padlocks. He didn’t know why. Primary school seemed so long ago, why should all those memories flood back and fill the voids left by his mum, or Gaz?

He didn’t want to say it, it just felt right at the time. the more he’s thought about it since, it made more sense, especially the night in town.

Times were especially hard, it was his mum’s birthday coming up so it called for drastic measures. Him and the boys went into town that night with the sole intention of grafting but causing no pain, they’d target the drunks who didn’t know better and certainly didn’t want any violence.

They got split up and he saw that drunk girl trying to get in the door, it was too good an opportunity to miss. She was fiddling with the lock and it seemed a gift horse. He didn’t see the bloke with her.

William felt the pain and closed his eyes. All he could see were keys and locks, a classroom, an embarrassed child crying. He bled for a while and staggered into the street, managed to rang his mates, the rest is a blur but he knew it must have been ok as he woke up in hospital full of relief, and little else.

He wishes he’d said something else that day in school.

His nightmares are filled with keys and padlocks and regret.

Growing up, Terry knew from an early age that he wanted to be a doctor. A surgeon more specifically. He’d watch all the medical shows on the family black and white portable and after passing his finals, felt his life was complete. He would (somewhat perversely) cut up dead animals he found whilst playing, and (rather more nicely) sew up toys that were fraying or at risk of losing their limbs.

It wasn’t, and several mistakes later, including removing a young boy’s undescended testicle without consulting the parents (or obviously the boy himself) he realised he could no longer go on living behind the facade of carrying out minor operations in nice hospitals and never really thinking he was making much of a difference.

Not having had a family, dedicating himself to his work, he decided to spend his savings on something else that he’d wanted to do, and travelled to the Far East. It was a good time to be leaving Britain, the mid Eighties, and in little time at all he knew for certain that he’d done the right thing.

Finally he found love, in a bar in Hong Kong. Love that didn’t involve scalpels or sterilising, scrubbing up or anaesthetics. Kim was her name. She even spoke quite good English, because her sister, who coincidentally had moved to England a few years earlier, sent her Beatrix Potter books on a  regular basis.

He took her around the world. He paid for everything, he was living out his fantasy, and kept souvenirs of every single place they visited, planes they flew on, restaurants they ate at. New York, San Francisco, Canada, Hawaii, Kuala Lumpur, Tokyo, but the love of Jeremy Fisher and Mrs Tiggywinkle ensured that Kim wanted to settle down in the Lakes, only just up the road from where he had practised, a lifetime ago at that time.

She lasted a couple of years then moved down to her sister’s. Her niece had gone away to Uni, Kim got a job in the family factory, and Terry was alone again.

Some people say he died of a broken heart – others say cancer. He tried to move on, was even planning to join an agency but had lost the passport photo on the way into town one day. But within a few months he was diagnosed with terminal cancer and could just about afford a place in a hospice attached to the hospital he had last worked at.

Terry died in 2003, leaving little but a Beatrix Potter figurine collection and a bag of untouched matchboxes (Terry never smoked) and boarding passes. The statues got a good price at auction, helped that year’s fundraising appeal, but the matchboxes stagnated on stalls at coffee mornings for a couple of years until a human magpie, attending a spring fair with his grandma (his aunty and grandfather having spent time at the same hospice) bought them. 

Kim still goes back to the Lakes a couple of times a year with family, her niece having gone missing last year. She longs for the days when Terry would hold her hand as they walked, or read to her late at night. She wishes she had some souvenirs of their wonderful trips together, instead of just fading memories.

He was a loner at school. He only cared for making things, he took them home and normally they got thrown in the bin. But he kept on making things.

His other passion was Liverpool F. C., it was a glorious time to follow them on their forays into Europe. Indeed, this photo was taken in September ‘79, when he was applying for his first passport. He got to know people through travelling, even made some friends, and joined a Supporters’ Club.

He started to work away, often London, but made sure he could get back up north west way for the weekend fixtures, plus any others he could fit in in between. Down there he made friends with a fellow Scouser, Kev, a plasterer. They became thick as thieves, Peter’s first real friend away from the terraces. Kev was a fan too, like, but had more of an eye for the ladies. They were going to set up a business together, Peter even put his (substantial) life savings into setting it up.

But then Kev got a girl pregnant and had to move back home. Peter begged but he kept saying no, he had different priorities now. Peter was left stranded, nobody else could help him out, he had too much invested and wanted so much to go ‘home’ but couldn’t. Not for more than a weekend anyway, for the match. One such Saturday in 2003 he’d seen them lose. Business was slow, he had a few drinks to try to forget about it, but then he saw Kev’s car parked on Mount Pleasant in town and something just went inside him.

He’d never felt like that before. He didn’t want to cause any damage, but he had to let Kev know how he felt.

Unfortunately for Peter, it was a windy day and the only person who read the note (until now) was a trainee art teacher on his way home from the library.

After the release of that note, Peter began to feel better about things. About himself.  He made a go of the business, and after a couple of years, was in a position to sell, and move back to Liverpool. There’d be loads of work there, as the city was gearing up towards Capital of Culture year. And, he’d be closer to the Reds.

Thankfully he never bumped into Kev, but did get some work, and became more involved in the supporter’s club. He was put in charge of the ticket collection for the fifty-odd strong group.

In February 2006 he’d had a few drinks after work and had to go the bank, put in some money. He had the tickets for the Wigan and Benfica away games with him, ready to distribute at that night’s monthly meeting.

Half an hour later, Peter was reminded of that bad Christmas, after his mum died. He stayed in alone all day and watched films he knew would make him cry. He’d drank too much rum to remember the name, but vaguely recalled one of them being about a guy who leaves an envelope inthe bank, and someone else in it having a guardian angel save them. The end made him cry, and think of Kev with his family. 

He had tears in his eyes again now – he’d left the tickets in the bank! He’d owe thousands, he’d get kicked out of the club, he had to find them.

He re-traced his stumbled steps, sobering up on the way. He thought of all the excuses, but none would make up for this… what could he do?

After making it to the bank, he was soon speaking to his own guardian angel.

So relieved was Peter that he forgot about the fella who’d handed the envelopes in straight away. Who he’d promised a reward to. The tickets were safe now.  He had to keep this one quiet, or they’d find out… he didn’t owe him anything, and anyway he was a Blue nose.

Benfica

He kept his role at the supporter’s club. Went to Istanbul, and Athens, still works but drinks too much. Desperately wants a girlfriend, never quite works out. The last nice girl he met in the Oak gave him someone else’s number, ended up speaking to her boyfriend apologetically. He’s still got Liverpool… just not much else. 

Peter wishes he was still making things at school.