Love's Cold Burn Read online

  ‘He has no self belief and can’t imagine why an attractive young lady would ever want to speak to him.’ Tom had a good look at Pink Socks, who was wearing yellow socks today, he had noticed up at the bonfire. ‘Mind you. She is a babe. I saw her in town on the first day of term.’

  ‘You taking an interest?’ Brian smiled.

  ‘No. No,’ Tom replied instantly. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. That would destroy Andrew and besides, I like Gaudy Ear-rings.’

  ‘Stop looking at her then.’

  ‘I’m not. I was just wondering how we could help Andrew. If he forgot his spots for five minutes and smiled a bit more often, he’d be fine.’ The juke-box struck up again with Billie Jean by Michael Jackson.

  Chapter 11

  I think I’m in love

  Nine days later, November 14, 1983: Andrew Leopard was a sad 18 year old. He woke to find a new yellow head had appeared on a spot he had squeezed three days before. He thought he had seen the last of this particular spot and was looking forward to relatively clear skin and a chance to get to know Pink Socks, but that was out of the question now. It was over a week since he spoke briefly with her at the bonfire, but he had not followed that up yet.

  He washed his face and had another go at squeezing the spot, but this turned out to be a mistake. Yellow must have been the colour of the scab as nothing came out when he pressed, but he did make the blemish look worse. His already low morale dipped further. He would have to avoid people for a few more days before he could face anybody with confidence, not that he ever faced anybody with confidence. Andrew was feeling quite sorry for himself.

  He dressed and gathered his books for his economics lecture knowing there was a chance that his new bigger spot could be seen by Pink Socks. He crept quietly along the corridor and past the kitchen door. He scurried across campus with his head down and found a seat at the back of the lecture hall. There she was in the opposite corner of the room. He felt a glow of warmth just seeing her from a distance.

  Professor Mumbles wound up his summary of diminishing marginal utility and Andrew was straight out, back across campus, quietly past the closed kitchen door and into his room. He settled in the soft chair and reflected, almost tearfully, on his life.

  Was he a happy student? Did he like Southside University? Did he like his floor-mates on Dickens Court and would he ever make any progress with Pink Socks? He told himself he was in love, then asked himself what did that mean? If it means you picture yourself alongside somebody every time you do something and imagine how they would react to all your thoughts, then yes, he was in love. But you’re supposed to be happy when you are in love. Andrew wasn’t happy, but she was in his head all the time. He must be in love.

  He fantasised. How nice it would be to hold her hand, to put his arm around her shoulder and sit next to her in lectures. His life would be fantastic if he could enjoy these simple pleasures. His father would be so proud of him if he took Pink Socks home for a weekend to meet his parents. He thought what Brian and Tom Hill would want from a girl. He knew Brian thought only of sex, but Tom would put a girl first. He would enjoy every moment he spent with a girl, whatever they were doing together, but he would still have sex with her. Andrew’s thoughts about Pink Socks had never even progressed that far. It would be more than enough to walk side by side through the park.

  The whole university experience was not what he had expected. The people seemed so aggressive, so driven by sex in every aspect of life and completely lacking in academic interest, which was supposed to be why they were at university in the first place. He had mentioned the name of a sociologist the day before at lunch and Hugh Grundy had replied ‘who the hell is he?’ while Brian had looked up thoughtfully, shook his head and returned to page three of his newspaper.

  He was rarely happy at college, struggled to keep a smile on his face and when he came up against problems, he found himself wondering what advice his mother would have given him. He felt out of place. His father had always told him ‘a place for everything and everything in its place,’ but he had no place. He wanted so desperately to break free from his father’s control, but now found himself missing the structure that he offered.

  He wanted to think for himself, make decisions and make things happen, but he couldn’t do it. He knew he carried no respect on floor three. He was an object of fun. They would think differently if he bought Pink Socks back for lunch, but that was never going to happen. A knock at the door broke his train of thought.

  ‘Lunch,’ Brian shouted.

  It was time to take his big spot into the kitchen and hope that nobody picked on him. He opened the door just enough to push through and sit at the table.

  ‘How hungry are you?’ Brian asked.

  ‘Not very.’

  Brian placed two fish-fingers on Andrew’s plate, six on his own and four on Tom’s.

  ‘Just a minute,’ shouted Tom.

  Brian put one of his fish-fingers on Tom’s plate.

  ‘Have you had your hair cut?’ Tom asked Andrew.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Looks different.’

  Brian continued to read his paper even while they ate. Looking up for a moment, he addressed, the whole room, which was full. All seven boys were there. Just the boy from room one missing. Still nobody had seen him. ‘What do you think of this new chap in charge of the Labour Party?’

  ‘Neil Kinnock?’ asked Tom.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Ian Mellor, who was Welsh. ‘He is excellent. He is Welsh.’

  ‘Shut it Wanker.’ Hugh joined in. ’The only good thing to come out of Wales is the M4.’

  ‘He’s a tosser.’ Colin Dean’s contribution did nothing to raise the intellectual level of the conversation.

  ‘Is that all you have to add?’ asked Tom.

  ‘He’s a Welsh tosser.’ Colin laughed at his own joke. ‘What do you think Crypt?’

  Roger Evans didn’t react, other than to pack his food in a cardboard box and leave the room.

  ‘All the opinion polls have moved in Labour’s direction since he took over,’ Brian was conservative with a small ‘c’ but strongly believed that a Labour government would be a disaster. ‘Doesn’t matter who’s in charge anyway. They’ll still argue with each other and never get in.’

  Being the older brother Brian had already voted at one general election and had helped Margaret Thatcher return to power.

  Tom disagreed with his brother. He was looking forward to voting Labour, whoever was in charge. ‘They might be alright. You never know. At least they would think about the poor.’

  That set Brian off. ‘So how are they going to help the poor if they have no money because they have taxed the rich so much that they leave the country?’

  Tom had to respond to that. ‘You’re missing the point. It’s not all about money. People and attitudes are what matter, not balance sheets. The “loadsa money” culture created by Maggie has damaged the moral fabric of the country. ‘

  ‘We’ve got more money.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. We’re spiritually poor.’

  ‘Good intentions don’t put a roof over your head.’

  ‘But we’re happier with what we’ve got.’

  ‘Yes. And what we’ve got is more money.’ The brothers would never agree.

  ‘I’d rather have the money.’ Hugh was with Brian.

  ‘I’ll take the money.’ So was Colin.

  ‘He’s Welsh. I’m voting for him.’ Ian would have voted for him, whichever party he belonged to.

  Andrew finished his second fish-finger delighted that the conversation had drawn attention away from his spot. He had no firm political views and sat listening as Tom and Brian continued rubbishing each other’s ideas until they agreed to disagree.

  ‘There are more important things in life,’ Colin said to break the quiet that followed the heated exchange. ‘Tonight is student night at The Skin Shop.’ That was the only nightclub in Southside and Monday night was student night with all drinks for 50p
. ‘Who’s coming?’ There were nods of approval from Tom, Brian, Hugh and Ian. ‘How about you Leopard?’

  ‘I’ll have to say no. I’m a bit short of money … I am.’ Andrew had enough money and wanted to go with them, but didn’t want to be seen out and about until his new spot had died down a bit. He had never been to a nightclub and the thought of going to one did not appeal, but he didn’t want Hugh, Ian or Colin taking his place as Tom’s friend, or even Brian’s friend. As crude as Brian was, you knew where you were with him and he had looked after Andrew a few times when Hugh and Colin had been unkind.

  ‘Andrew, I saw Pink Socks this morning,’ Tom said casually.

  He instantly had Andrew’s attention.

  ‘Have you seen her today?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Yes. In economics.’

  ‘How close were you?’

  ‘She was on the far side of the lecture hall. I don’t think she saw me.’

  ‘Well I saw her close up. In the library.’

  Andrew waited expectantly.

  ‘She had an enormous spot on her nose.’

  ‘Really?’ said Andrew with disbelief and half a smile.

  ‘You see. You’re so busy worrying about your face that you haven’t even noticed that she is human too. She has spots. She has worries.’ Tom could see he was making some progress.

  ‘She probably even farts Andrew.’ Brian was less helpful.

  Andrew didn’t respond to Brian, but thought to himself that even his crude suggestion did add something to Tom’s excellent point. A large spot on a girl’s nose would not normally be considered sexy or alluring, but, for Andrew, it was the first thing that gave him a feeling of affinity with the girl that he loved.

  Chapter 12

  The Skin Shop

  Same day, November 14, 1983: It was a crisp autumn day. The sun came out every now and then and gusts of wind carried leaves past Norman Hill as he sat on the bench across the grass from Dickens Court. He had made a number of visits to the university and sat on that same bench every time, catching the odd glimpse of his sons Tom and Brian but never making any contact. However much time passed, his thoughts were unchanged. The pain of losing his wife Janet was just as strong. The wish to see his boys was just as strong, but nothing changed. He watched from a distance.

  He watched the leaves blow past all afternoon. The orange lights that lined the path turned themselves on as darkness fell. There was a gentle shower but Norman stayed where he was, waiting for Tom and Brian. It was late evening before they came out of the halls of residence laughing and joking with a crowd of friends.

  Norman was not impressed with the boys that were with his sons tonight. He had seen them going in and out of Dickens Court but never with his boys. The tall bald student looked and sounded aggressive and his fair haired friend was a creep. A third student didn’t look too bad, but he wasn’t the serious boy that he had seen with his sons on a few previous occasions.

  The boys turned the corner and headed for town. As they passed the union building, Hugh Grundy gestured his arm towards the building. ‘Quick one here first?’

  ‘No point. It’s 50p a pint at the club,’ Brian preferred to keep the costs down.

  They crossed the railway bridge and headed down Thief Lane. As they passed the football ground Hugh waved his arm towards the Wanderer’s Rest. ‘Quick one in here?’

  ‘50p a pint.’ Brian kept walking. As they rounded the corner into North Street and the Red Lion came into view, Brian turned to Hugh. ‘No. 50p a pint.’ They carried on walking through the shopping centre. Colin Dean led the way. He liked to think of himself as the senior member of the group, the one with all the local knowledge.

  Tom, Brian and Ian Mellor had not been to The Skin Shop and Colin had proudly told them they would be going up John’s Passage. Second on the left after the shopping centre was John’s Passage where the club was well hidden from the main shopping streets. The entrance to The Skin Shop looked very similar to the garage doors which lined the opposite side of the street. They wouldn’t have found it without Colin’s help, although the queue was about 20 people deep and that would have been as good as a sign over the door. Two large bouncers in dinner jackets also showed them they had found the nightclub.

  They were all very cold by now, the cloakroom was an extra 50p and none of the boys wanted to pay the same as the cost of a pint of beer to hang their coats up.

  A large number of clubbers tonight were from Southside University. The pull of cheap beer saw to that. There were also students from the law school, technical college and sixth forms of all three of the town’s schools. There were also a few ‘townies’. That was the phrase the students used for the general public in Southside. The townies had phrases they used for the students, but they were not nearly as polite. Students were unpopular with a lot of the permanent residents of the town, who considered them lazy, scruffy, free-loading louts; a needless drain on the public purse.

  Having spent most of their government grants on beer, many of those students would go on to share the views of the townies, but, for now, felt unfairly castigated.

  The Skin Shop had very soft lighting and all the walls were black. There were three separate bars on three levels with the top level having a balcony overlooking the dance floor of the middle section, which featured chart music. The basement had a second dance floor with Punk music.

  Hugh liked Punk but the boys stuck together and headed for the top bar so they could drink beer and watch girls from the balcony. There were a lot of loud girls in red v-neck jumpers with a number of equally loud boys wearing the same garment. It was Southside University Hockey Club doing a bit of team building. It was a mixed club with male and female teams, both were out together. They weren’t as loud as the football club could be, Brian and Tom were looking forward to their club night out, which would be more rowdy than the hockey players, but still well short of the rugby club, which set the benchmark for drunken debauchery.

  Colin bullied Ian into buying the first round. ‘You can get the first round Wanker because you’re Welsh.’ He was Welsh and couldn’t think of a quick comeback, so he accepted it, like he accepted most things, and bought the drinks in the hope that it would be the last time he got his wallet out that evening. Pints of snakebite for Colin and Hugh with pints of lager for Ian and the Hill brothers.

  Ten minutes later, Hugh tried to bully Tom into buying a round but failed miserably and, in order to save face, made Colin get the drinks instead. After another 20 minutes, Hugh didn’t want to risk putting pressure on Tom again and went up to the bar himself. The brothers went for a game of pool and Colin went to the gents, while Hugh and Ian grabbed a table.

  ‘Seen any girls you like Wanker?’ Hugh asked.

  ‘Do you have to call me Wanker?

  ‘No, but it rolls off the tongue easily. Besides, I caught you at it in the shower.’

  ‘You heard some noises. You don’t know what I was doing.’

  ‘Pant, pant. What else could it be?’

  ‘Rubbing my hair dry with a towel.’

  ‘The water was still running.’

  ‘Rubbing mud off my knees.’

  ‘Doubt it. I tell you what, I’ll stop calling you Wanker if you admit that you were. And I won’t tell the others.’

  Ian was tempted by that offer but was unsure if he could trust Hugh. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

  ‘I’m a decent bloke. You have my word. It’s Ian from now on if you just admit it.’

  Ian thought for a moment. It was probably worth a gamble.

  ‘Okay. You caught me wanking. Anyway. Is that so bad? Everybody does it.’

  Hugh could not help laughing. ‘I knew it. I was only guessing in the first place but I knew I was right.’ He was still laughing as Colin arrived back at the table closely followed by Brian and Tom.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Colin.

  ‘Wanker just admitted that I caught him wanking.’ Hugh told everybody, still laughing.


  ‘You git. You promised me.’ Ian wasn’t happy.

  ‘Well yes. There’s a lesson there. You shouldn’t trust me Wanker.’

  ‘My round then.’ Brian went for more drinks, with Tom’s help. At the bar Tom spotted Greenpeace Badge. She was with a young man. Tom had seen her a few times during the first few weeks of term and had, as she had suggested, become friends. Greenpeace Badge introduced Tom to her boyfriend and Brian left them to it.

  ‘Where’s Wanker?’ Brian asked on his return.

  ‘Went off in a strop,’ Hugh said, still smiling. ‘And Tom?’

  ‘Busy meeting his chick’s boyfriend.’ Brian struggled to conceal a hint of jealousy.

  ‘I’d better drink his beer then.’ Hugh grabbed the spare pint and downed it in one, which turned out to be a mistake. In order to save some cash for the nightclub trip, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He had also played poker with some other second years for the whole of the previous night. The combined effect of snakebite, no food and no sleep topped off with a hastily drunk pint of lager, was enough to push Hugh past his limit, which, given his size, took quite some doing. He raced to the toilets and made the cubicle just in time to vomit straight down the pan. Colin raced after him to check on his best friend leaving Brian on his own, having started the evening with four floor-mates by his side.

  In the circumstances, he went for a wander and checked out the alternative dance-floor in the basement. It was almost like a members-only section and he felt as if he were being watched by everybody in the room as he strolled in with his pint of beer. The only black he had on was his Dr Marten shoes, but he hadn’t polished them since he bought them, so they were more of a dirty grey.

  Brian was the only person in the room who wasn’t wearing predominantly black and most of the others, male and female, had a large amount of black make-up to add to the sombre look. Very few people smiled. It would have been un-cool. Brian strolled around sipping at his pint and smiling warmly at the Goths, occasionally throwing in the odd dance move as he worked his way around the basement.