Love's Cold Burn Page 2

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The girl on the pen.’

  ‘Oh yes. Lovely.’ Andrew’s red face gave him away. The girl on the pen was the first he had seen with no clothes.

  Tom saw a new subject would be appreciated. He was a kind young man and, unlike his brother, chose a more considerate path when it was clear that another person’s feelings could be hurt. ‘What course are you on?’

  Andrew was grateful. ‘Economics and politics. You?’

  ‘Sociology.’

  ‘Ah. I think I will be doing some sociology in my first year … I will.’

  Tom noticed the soft echo again. He liked Andrew. He had always kept an eye out for weaker people. He didn’t like to see anybody picked on and always favoured the underdog. ‘Do you fancy a beer later?’

  Andrew was delighted to have been asked and said that he would. A visit to the pub would be an excellent chance to build on his new friendship and maybe even meet a girl. They agreed a time to meet and Andrew pulled the door open. As he walked out, Tom shouted after him, ’My brother will be joining us.’

  ‘I look forward to meeting him,’ Andrew replied with fresh composure.

  ‘You already have. He was the loud one in the kitchen.’

  Chapter 2

  Brian’s testicle

  Same day, October 4, 1983: It was Brian Hill’s 19th birthday and he had just started a sociology degree at Southside University near London. His thoughts were far from his studies as he sat in the waiting room. He was going to show the doctor a rather embarrassing irregularity to his left testicle. He would have kept it to himself as there was no pain, but he feared it may effect his sexual performance.

  He was a virgin but not for lack of trying. But now he was a college boy, his expectations were sky-high. Brian Hill was ready with his packet of condoms which had been in his wallet for two years. One of the three had been used when he tried it on to avoid mistakes on the big day.

  He was a good looking young man, slightly above average height with sharp features and broad shoulders. He had thick, fair hair. The style depended on how many times he rolled over in bed the night before. His blue jeans, black denim jacket, white T-shirt and black Dr Marten shoes were a neutral fashion statement and his lively face gave him an air of youthful confidence.

  He didn’t like the idea of showing the doctor his penis and his mind was racing with thoughts of what might happen. ‘The doctor might touch my dick. What if it’s a female doctor? Potentially good. What if there’s a window facing a busy office?’ Brian knew what he liked and the idea of the female doctor was his favourite scenario. Now he had a new fear. ‘What if I get an erection?’ His fears had been partially realised which led to a new concern. ‘What if it’s a gay old man and I drop my pants to show a fully erect willy?’

  Brian quickly looked around the empty waiting room and concentrated on posters warning against smoking and sexually transmitted diseases. To his relief, the posters had the required effect and his erection faded. As he regained his composure an attractive girl wearing a short green cotton skirt, cut just above the knees, entered the waiting room and sat opposite.

  She crossed her legs and straightened her long black hair with her fingers; nail varnish to match the skirt. She pulled out a packet of Silk Cut cigarettes and lit one. Brian wondered what she was in for and considered the posters on sexually transmitted disease. While watching to see if she scratched herself, his eyes were drawn to the curves hidden beneath her slightly-too-small shirt, which featured the word Puma in capital letters across her chest. His eyes traced the outline of her breasts. Again his consulting room fears were aroused and he quickly looked back to the herpes posters. Now there was conflict in his mind. Visions of seeping genital sores fought for supremacy over ample breasts and crossed legs.

  Although it was a warm day, the waiting room was cool. It was on the dark side of a stark Sixties tower block, hidden from the warming rays of the late morning sun. A window at the end of the long thin room was wide open. A light breeze snaked its way behind the accusing posters. The rustle of paper was the only noise, although Brian could hear the occasional car manoeuvring in the parking spaces six floors below.

  The light wind tangled with the girl’s cigarette smoke and caught Brian’s attention. His eyes returned to her shirt. The chill in the room and the gentle breeze had had a pleasing effect on the contours beneath the deep red cotton, which was now stretched to a point behind the P of Puma and a similar point behind the A.

  Without considering the merits of approaching potentially diseased girls, Brian boldly made his move. ‘What a lovely day for visiting the doctor.’ No answer. But she did afford him eye contact for the first time, if only fleeting. Brian very rarely considered the merits of anything he did before acting. He often made inappropriate comments.

  ‘Do you come here often?’ Brian knew it was crass but he wanted to provoke conversation. It didn’t. But she stared aggressively into his eyes for long enough to make him feel uncomfortable. She reached for a magazine and flicked through, looking at the pictures. Brian was inspired by a baby on the front cover and tried to shock her into talking to him. ‘Are you here for a pregnancy test?’ He immediately regretted his rudeness. She placed the magazine back on the rack, leant in Brian’s direction and with a tone of assured contempt, shot him down. ‘I’m expecting twins young man and I’m here for a refund on my contraceptive prescription.’

  Brian was extremely thick skinned and barely noticed the patronising slant preferring to see her reaction as a victory in breaking the ice. The girl settled back in her moulded plastic chair, re-crossed her legs and continued to groom her silky black hair. It was long and wavy. It fell forward now and then as she pulled it from side to side. Brian kept his fingers crossed. He didn’t want her hair covering the P or the A of her Puma shirt, although his name may be called soon, so maybe that would be for the best.

  ‘I like your shirt.’

  ‘That’s nice for you.’

  ‘It makes your tits look lovely.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  Brian sat back and read the walls. A nurse came in a few minutes later with a clipboard. ‘Brian Hill?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This way please.’

  Brian had been staring at Puma Shirt for too long. He stood up with one hand in his trouser pocket to disguise his enthusiasm. He stopped and faced the girl. ‘Maybe I’ll see you around campus some time.’

  ‘Maybe you won’t.’

  Brian hurried after the nurse. He was pleased with himself for meeting an attractive young lady on his first day at college and blinkered enough to believe that he had made a good impression.

  The nurse stopped. She gestured Brian, with raised eyebrows and a wave of her clipboard, in the direction of a half-glazed door. He knocked and a man’s deep voice boomed ‘enter’. Brian was sure he had seen two figures through the frosted glass and this was confirmed as he slowly opened the door. He stared in disbelief. His feet rooted. Shoes nailed to the floor.

  He saw a fat-faced balding man of around 50. He had a large face like the man in the moon with a few chins. He wore a very old suit, which shone with the gloss of age. If there were such an instrument as a suit horn, it would have been needed to help squeeze this over-sized man into his under-sized clothes. It may also have come in handy to force the doctor into the small space behind his inadequate desk. A few stray hairs had matted together and stuck to his bald scalp with a thin film of sweat. Was this the homosexual elderly doctor that Brian had feared? He had the right face according to all Brian’s unsubstantiated opinions on what constituted an aging gay man. His nose was extremely large, red and covered in black-heads, while his lips were of the bloated kind that appear to have been pulled inside out by a corkscrew.

  The doctor was bad enough, but, worse still, he had an assistant. A young man, early twenties, sat in the corner. A similar glossy suit, too big, probably from a charity shop as it looked older than the man wearing it. The
man’s sharp shoulders followed the same creases that the wire coat-hanger had filled in the shop for many months.

  ‘Do sit down young man. I haven’t got all day,’ the doctor thundered.

  Brian sat. He did not want to get his penis out for this man and his assistant to examine.

  ‘Now my boy. Hope you don’t mind.’ The second sentence was rhetorical. He would proceed regardless. ‘My man here is a trainee. Taken him under my wing. He’ll be sitting in. Learning the ropes. That sort of thing. Won’t say a word. Just ignore him. Now then. What’s the problem?’

  Chapter 3

  Tom’s gift

  Same day, October 4, 1983: Tom Hill had just started the same sociology degree as his brother Brian, also at Southside University. They had both arrived on campus the day before and each had a room in Dickens Court, block F, floor three, Tom in room five and Brian next door in room four. Eight boys shared a kitchen on floor three and this room was also their living area. Tom and Brian had arrived ahead of their floor-mates and grabbed all the best cupboard space.

  While Brian was seeing the doctor, Tom walked the half mile into Southside town centre to buy his brother a birthday present. It was mostly downhill into town as the university sat on the brow of a hill, a prominent position it shared with the town’s historic church, which boasted the thirteenth tallest spire in England.

  His walk took him through the car park where it seemed every estate car in the country had its boot open and young men and women were pulling out guitars and record players. The odd student even had a television, but not many. Tom scanned the faces wondering if any of these new arrivals would be living on his floor. A tall aggressive teenager with a shaven head climbed out of a van featuring the logo Grundy Electrical Contractors on the side. He stood on the bag of a spotty shy boy, who made an apology and grabbed the grey rucksack. Tom wondered why the cowering youngster was making the apology and not the aggressive bald boy. He would later discover that both boys were to be his floor-mates and would not like each other at all.

  Tom left them behind and crossed the bridge over the railway into Thief Lane. It was a busy line with Southside, a popular town for London commuters. Tom passed the football ground. Southside Wanderers had been in the Fourth Division as long as their 2,000 loyal fans could remember. He turned into North Street and crossed the road-bridge over the River Earwash, made famous five years previously when a boating accident had led to the gruesome death of a man who was not aware how little clearance there was between his boat and the bridge.

  Beyond the river was the main shopping centre, the product of a recent re-development very similar to many taking place across the home counties to provide glass-covered weather-proof shopping featuring most of the popular high-street chains.

  He walked around C&A for half an hour struggling to find something that looked more expensive than his £5 budget. Not much of that time was spent looking at possible gifts. The problem with C&A, or any other clothes shop, for a person like Tom, was the abundance of mirrors. He was incredibly vain. Every time he saw his own reflection out of the corner of his eye, he stopped to take a lingering look of admiration. He was proud of his square jaw and five o’clock shadow, mature features for a boy of only 18. Tom was six feet, a shade taller than his older brother. His black hair was close cropped and never needed brushing. He wore a leather jacket, covered in zips and tassels, white jeans and a pair of brown plastic shoes. He preferred plastic because it was consistent with his vegetarian views. He liked the leather jacket though so the welfare of animals took a back-seat when he made that selection. He had strong views, but little inconsistencies were not unusual.

  He was born in August 1965, at the opposite end of the same academic year his brother was born. This meant they had gone through school together, always in the same class, usually as firm friends but there were odd times when accumulated tension led to volatile arguments, but nothing that wasn’t forgotten by the next day. Now they were looking forward to helping each other get through their degree course with as little effort as possible. Even the choice of subject had been made with the intention of minimising workload. They had been assured that social sciences were a soft option and the easiest way to become a graduate. They both believed that employers would be far less interested in the content of their courses than the letters after their names.

  Tom left C&A empty-handed. He had no idea what to buy his brother and was easily distracted. On this particular occasion, as on many others, by an attractive young lady who stood out partly because of her prominent pink socks, but partly also because of her bottom. She was a short girl but well proportioned and Tom could not take his eyes of her wiggle. She took her wiggle into a shop called Third World Collective. Tom thought that as good a shop as any to find a present and followed.

  The girl with pink socks would also feature strongly in Tom’s life during his first year at college, but not in the way he may have hoped upon first seeing her. As he entered, the girl came straight back out. He had to be cool so he let her go. Tom was also a virgin, although he initially told Brian one fumbled moment of passion had been full sex when in fact there had been no meaningful follow-up to early signs of promise. Brian had forced a retraction after a lengthy conversation the following morning.

  Tom also had a tired old packet of condoms in his back pocket which he had bought from the same pub toilet vending machine as his brother on the same night two years ago. He still had the full set of three though as he did not like waste of any kind. Wasting food was his main pet hate but any natural resources should be consumed with care, including rubber.

  It was a small shop but crammed full of stock. The shelves were overflowing with ethnic curiosities. Metallic oriental music floated between carved demons and onyx ashtrays. There was a subtle smell of incense, maybe lavender, floating in the air, but nothing leapt out as the perfect gift for a 19-year-old. Tom was growing impatient though and thought he’d better get something rather than go home with nothing looking like he didn’t care.

  Tom picked out a T-shirt with an abstract mosaic design involving orange, turquoise and purple drums. He didn’t think Brian would like it much but it looked more expensive than the £4 price tag. The attendant placed the shirt in a recycled brown paper bag and Tom headed back up the hill to Dickens Court.

  On his way home he passed The Red Lion, which looked like a pub which could be a hit with young Southsiders. Tom remembered the pub from his childhood. It had always been popular with bikers back then due to its large car park, but there were a number of neon signs now and the traditional look had been replaced with a trendy new image. Tom and Brian were both born in Southside but left after primary school. A lot had changed.

  Chapter 4

  Absent father

  Norman Hill was a wealthy man. He ran a thriving globally successful business, which occupied his total attention from the first minute he woke to the last minute at night and often as he tried, in vane, to sleep. He had two sons, Brian and Tom, but he had not seen them for seven years.

  The last time he saw them was at Janet Hill’s funeral. She had been his wife and their mother, but she had been killed in a car crash at the age of only 38. Until her death Norman had devoted his total attention to Janet and the boys in much the same way as he now did with his business. He could not cope with losing her. It threw him emotionally off balance to such an extent that he could not share his grief with his own sons. He put them into boarding school while he collected his thoughts and considered his future.

  As the time apart from his sons grew longer, it became harder and harder to get back together and be the father he wanted to be. Time is supposed to be a great healer, but Norman never got over Janet’s death. He felt cheated. She was only 38. She was the kindest, most considerate person he had ever met. She deserved to die in her sleep of old age with her grand-children weeping around her bed.

  Norman met Janet at Queen Street County Primary School on the northern edge of Southside. He was f
ive years old but a steady boy who mixed well, so when Janet, also five years old, started school, the teacher asked Norman to look after her for the day. He was delighted to have been given the responsibility by his teacher and helped Janet with her painting, learning the alphabet and sums. He even played with her at lunchtime out on the swings. For the next 33 years, they were inseparable, married at 21 in the church on the top of the hill next to the university.

  Tom and Brian were born within a year of each other and the family business was growing steadily. Norman taught his boys how to play football and climb trees while Janet spent all her time driving them back and forth from friends’ houses and clubs to make sure they grew up as confident and happy, well-rounded young men.

  It was on her way to collect the boys from football training that she was hit by a white parcel delivery van. The driver was in a hurry to make deadlines and attempted an overtaking manoeuvre which asked too much of his van. He never made his deadline as the impact claimed his life as well as that of Janet Hill.

  Brian and Tom’s love of football was one of the reasons Janet had been behind the wheel of her car at the wrong time. Norman firmly believed that he placed no blame of any kind upon his sons. He told them that on the day he took them to boarding school. He knew it was nothing to do with them, but he still took them to boarding school and he still asked a friend to care for them over Christmas until the next term started. Work had become hectic. He could not get away. He was travelling the world chasing bigger and better contracts.

  What use was he to his sons anyway? He should have collected them from football training. On the morning of the crash he told Janet he would make the pick-up.

  ‘Who’s picking up the boys from football?’ Janet asked over breakfast.