Love's Cold Burn

by Harry, Jessica

  ‘In a nutshell. Yes. But I prefer the flowery explanation. It’s more poetic. It works better with feeling.’

  Brian was completely lost and sipped his coffee slowly. He thought it was vile and wished Rupert had some cheap instant. He also had unanswered questions. ‘So Rupert. How come we haven’t seen you in six months?’

  ‘Just turned out that way I suppose. I promise I’ve not been avoiding you. I do a lot of composing and I need studio time for that. Under-graduates book the studio time during the day and most of the evening, so I take what’s left, often through the night. It’s the only time I can get near the equipment.’

  ‘Do you sleep during the day then?’ Brian was filling in the gaps.

  ‘Sometimes, but I have no lectures. I don’t need to be on campus much. My work often takes me to London and other places for concerts, to meet experts and to extend the scope of my research. So … you see … I’m hardly ever in Southside, and when I am, I work through the night.’

  Both boys nodded slowly in understanding, but Brian had one more question. ‘So what brings you to Southside today, in the middle of the holidays?’

  ‘I thought you may ask,’ he said, still smiling warmly. Then he jerked his head to one side, raised both eyebrows and lisped mysteriously, ‘there is no mystery.’ He paused before continuing. ‘There are very few under-graduates on campus at the moment. I have unlimited access to the studio and must make hay while the sun shines.’

  The brothers had expected a strange oblique answer and were almost disappointed with the simplicity of the truth.

  ‘So what keeps you boys on campus through the holiday?’ asked Rupert.

  The brothers never liked telling anybody about their parents, but Brian had an answer ready, which avoided the subject.

  ‘I had to stick around because I’m waiting for an operation. Tom stayed to keep me company.’

  ‘Do you have a date?’ Rupert asked.

  ‘Got it in the post this morning. They cut me open in six days time.’

  Chapter 29

  The final straw

  Four days later, April 11, 1984: It was cup final day, 48 hours before Brian Hill’s operation and there was heavy rain. The temperature was as low as it had been in January. A piercing and constant wind blew from the north. It had been raining when the brothers woke up and hadn’t stopped all day. It was an evening kick-off under floodlights at the home of Southside Wanderers in Thief Lane.

  Southside University’s football team had won through to the final largely as a result of fast, tidy football played on dry pitches with no strong wind. The whole team relied on a careful and composed passing game. None of them was particularly big, but they could usually outplay bigger stronger sides in the right conditions. Thick mud and strong wind was the last thing they wanted. It would give their more physical opponents a chance to bully them off the ball.

  All morning, the brothers had looked anxiously out of the window hoping for a break in the rain, but, if anything, it got heavier. If it were still winter, the pitch would have been waterlogged and the game called off, but a recent spell of warm dry weather had left the ground quite hard. The pitch would be muddy but playable.

  They sat in the Dickens Court kitchen eating their tea; sausages, baked beans and instant mash, watching the rain thrash against the window.

  ‘Shit Brian. We’re in trouble. Southside YMCA will love this. They’re a bunch of thugs.’ Tom chewed slowly. He didn’t want indigestion during the game. The university had already beaten the YMCA twice in the league but on nice days.

  Brian was more positive. ‘If we are solid at the back, one goal is all we need and if I can’t find the back of the net at least once in 90 minutes, I may as well give up football.’

  It didn’t help much. They both sat in the gloom staring out at the rain with blank faces.

  Two hours later they were in the changing rooms. The smell of liniment was strong. The buzz of confident banter was electric as the students proudly pulled on their red shirts for the biggest game of their season. Leaps Like A Salmon was busy putting in new studs to cope with the mud. Who Me was polishing his boots. They would be covered in mud within seconds of leaving the changing room, but it was part of his routine and sticking to the routine gave him confidence.

  Slogger sat quietly in the corner, pulling on his boots. He had been called in as substitute at the last minute after a fine season as second team captain. The heavy rain had led to his call-up. Slogger was a big lad, a no-nonsense grafter. He was a little nervous, however, he hadn’t been with the first team before and he knew his first touch was inferior to his team-mates. He hoped, if he got the chance, to make up for that with aggression and commitment.

  I Got The Last Touch was loudly slamming his boots on the concrete floor. The mud from previous games was packed between the studs. It fell out eventually, leaving two hard cakes of mud with neat sets of holes in each where the studs had been.

  Brian and Tom sat next to each other.

  ‘Anybody got any spare tie-ups?’ shouted Who Me.

  The Hard Man, who was team captain, threw a roll of tape at him. It caught him in the tummy. The Hard Man played alongside Tom in the centre of midfield. He did most of the tackling while Tom was the playmaker. With the 7.30pm kick off looming, Tom started his stretches in the changing room. He went through the same routine before every match, to make sure he didn’t pull any muscles in the early stages of the game.

  The tension in the dressing room was growing as the minutes ticked by, but the rain still fell and the wind still blew. The Hard Man clapped his hands loudly. ‘Right. Listen up.’ The room went quiet. Who Me made a joke. ‘Shut it Who Me. Let’s start thinking about football now. The joking’s over. Get your minds on the game. We’ve worked hard to reach this final, so don’t let yourselves down.’

  There were murmurs of agreement. ‘The pitch will cut up. No prisoners tonight. Hit ‘em hard. Ask questions later.’ He thumped his fist on the table in the middle of the room and snarled with genuine aggression. ‘Hit the bastards hard. They won’t hold back. We’ve done ‘em twice in the league. They want revenge and they think we’re a fair-weather side, so let’s prove ‘em wrong.’

  The Hard Man paused briefly. ‘And,’ he said, turning to Brian with a steely glare. ‘No fancy shit. You got that Brian?’

  Brian smiled. He said nothing but was thinking, ‘Your job’s to stop them scoring. I’m the magician. Leave the heroics to me. I know what I’m doing.’

  The Hard Man continued. ‘Keep it tight at the back. Listen to the call. Go with it. Any shirkers and you’re off. Slogger’s on the bench. He’s fired up and I won’t hesitate to bring him on. He’ll do a job if we need him. Right. Let’s get interested. I want to hear a bit of desire. Come on. Let’s do it.’ He smashed both fists on the table now and the players clapped loudly and stamped their studs on the hard floor in an adrenalin-charged crescendo.

  They jogged onto the rain-soaked, flood-lit pitch in front of almost empty stands. Around 200 students and YMCA supporters formed a noisy group in the seats around the players’ tunnel.

  Seven free kicks in the first ten minutes confirmed The Hard Man’s opinion that it would be a physical game. The rain now fell so hard that it was difficult to see the whole length of the pitch. The biting wind sapped the students’ strength and made it hard to follow the flight of the ball accurately.

  No goals after 15 minutes and very few goal-mouth incidents. YMCA had forced a corner, but it was into the wind and fell short. A tame hooked shot went well wide. From the resultant goal kick, which sliced off to the left as it caught the wind, Brian picked up the ball and set off on a run, only to be chopped down from behind sending him face first into the mud.

  The referee’s whistle blew for a free-kick. Brian picked himself up and set off on a run down the left. Leaps Like A Salmon saw his run and chipped the free-kick into his path. He took the ball in his stride and took it forward to the edge of the penalty area. With
the defender about to lunge at his feet, he turned sharply and ran along the edge of the 18-yard box. He hoped he might have a shot and waited for a clear view of goal, but waltzing past further tackles pushed him to the far side of the area, at which point he stopped, rolled the ball back under his right foot and clipped it with his heal gently in the direction of the penalty spot.

  The change of direction sent all the defenders the wrong way, but Who Me read the pass and strolled through unmarked for a simple tap in to the keeper’s left. The boys were jubilant and celebrated loudly with due credit to Brian for his inspired defence-splitting pass.

  With five minutes to go before the break, Brian made a similar jinking run followed by a beautifully weighted pass, which gave I Got The Last Touch a clear shot on goal. He drilled the ball top left giving the keeper no chance. Again there was jubilation and again Brian was rightly given a great deal of credit.

  The half-time whistle blew and the students were glad of the chance to warm themselves with a cup of tea in the changing room. Spirits were high, but The Hard Man was quick to urge caution as the players congratulated Who Me and I Got The Last Touch for their goals.

  ‘The fat lady isn’t singing yet. There’s another 45 minutes to go. If we can score two, so can they. So we’ve got to dig deep and give it everything.’ The unfortunate table was thumped repeatedly. ‘We’re 45 minutes away from glory, but it won’t come easy. Keep it simple and play the easy ball … every time Brian. No room for fancy shit, right?’

  ‘Give us a break. That’s why we’re winning,’ Brian appealed light-heartedly.

  The Hard Man was stern. ‘I’m not arguing with you Brian. Keep it simple or you’re off. If you passed a bit sooner more often, we could have been three up, home and dry by now. Right. Get out there and do it.’ If the table were a small dog, it would have cowered in the corner. After more table thumping, foot stamping and loud clapping, they jogged back out into the rain.

  The YMCA manager had inspired his players to fresh levels of aggression. The free-kick rate reached new peaks. Four YMCA players were booked in the space of 20 minutes, but there were no more goals. The students were starting to feel the impact of the tackles and the flowing football had become more frantic.

  Brian tried to unlock the defence with a delicate chip, but the heavy mud and hard tackles had weakened his legs. The pass fell short and was easily intercepted. From the resultant YMCA attack, Tom made a desperate goal-line clearance.

  Minutes later Brian was tackled after twice failing to play a simple pass and again Tom came to his rescue with a well-timed tackle just moments before a clear shot on the students’ goal.

  Brian was again tackled, but chased the YMCA player all the way back to the penalty area and slid at his feet with a reckless challenge. The whistle blew. Penalty. Thump. The lead was cut to a single goal.

  With 15 minutes to play, YMCA scored a second goal after a goal-mouth scramble.

  ‘Ref,’ shouted The Hard Man. ‘Substitution please.’ The referee nodded. ‘Brian.’ The Hard Man was taking off Brian for Slogger.

  Brian was shocked. Just when his side needed some inspiration, the captain was taking off their most gifted player to be replaced by their least talented plodder. This was too stupid for words. He trudged off and sat in the dug-out.

  Tom dropped to sweeper and Slogger made an extra man in the centre of defence.

  With two minutes left to play, YMCA played a long hopeful ball forward, which deceived Slogger. He missed the ball completely and it ran towards goal. Tom had stepped forward expecting Slogger to make the clearance, leaving space for the YMCA striker to nip in and tap home the winner.

  The students’ heads dropped as the final whistle blew.

  Nobody spoke in the changing room. Water dripped from their muddy bodies. Matted hair fell over disappointed eyes. A bemused tension filled the air. They had thrown away a two-goal lead and the captain had taken off their star player. The players had mixed thoughts on the wisdom of The Hard Man’s decision. Still nobody spoke.

  Brian’s adrenalin was coursing through his veins, no longer pumped up with the desire to win, now driven by anger. He pulled off his red kit and left it where it fell. His movements were jerky and hurried. He needed to get out of the room as quickly as possible, if only to avoid hitting someone. He was inwardly telling himself he had just played his last game for the university. He wanted nothing more to do with a club run by a captain who was prepared to commit cup-final suicide as The Hard Man had just done.

  He didn’t bother with a shower and pulled his jeans on over the thick layers of wet mud. He slipped his trainers on over his bare feet. He jumped up and headed for the door, taking a route past The Hard Man. With his face held only a few inches from the captain’s face, he passed judgement with great menace and bared teeth. ‘Dickhead.’

  The Hard Man wisely refrained from reacting, knowing Brian would probably need very little excuse to throw a punch. Brian turned away and stormed out. Tom quickly dressed, apologised for his brother’s outburst and chased after him through the rain. Brian was walking purposefully back towards the college.

  ‘Hold up Brian,’ Tom had to run to catch him.

  Brian ignored him and kept up his brisk pace, staring hard at the path in front of him. As Tom caught up, Brian’s glare remained fixed on the path in front of him.

  ‘Dickhead,’ Brian repeated, with the same venom shown in the changing room. ‘What a complete dickhead. How could he possibly have thought that taking me off, the top goal scorer, for that donkey Slogger, would help us win the cup? What a total pratt.’ Brian’s pace quickened as they crossed the railway bridge, but he continued to stare straight ahead, teeth grinding, lips taut, eyes narrowed. Brian’s tirade ebbed and flowed as the boys passed the union building and turned towards Dickens Court.

  As they passed Dickens Court reception building, Tom tried to calm Brian’s anger. ‘Maybe he had good reason to take you off.’ His words were poorly chosen. They only sparked a fresh volley of anger.

  Brian stopped in his tracks, turned to face his brother and pointed his finger sharply at Tom as he switched his fury on his brother. ‘Good reason? Good reason?’ he shouted. In the darkness, their faces were softly lit by the lights pouring out of the reception windows. The rain could be seen clearly against the amber path lights, still falling hard and the boys were shouting, partly through anger and partly to be heard over the howling wind. They were soaked to the skin but had long stopped caring.

  It was years since the brothers had argued. There had been plenty of heated exchanges, but they had been no more than playful banter. This was different. Tom felt the malice in Brian’s words cut like a knife. He wasn’t sure how to respond and again his choice of words only inflamed the situation. ‘Let’s face it Brian. You did give the penalty away, I cleared off the line following one of your mistakes and I blocked another shot after you gave the ball away.’

  They were still face to face outside the reception. The rain was relentless and the drains had flooded. Water now flowed around their feet as the paths ran like mountain streams.

  Brian was livid. There was only one thing worse than The Hard Man weakly conceding the cup by taking him off and that was his brother agreeing with the fool. The one person he expected to stand by him in any situation was stabbing him in the back. He pushed Tom’s chest with the palm of his hand, almost daring him to take a swing. ‘Yes. Let’s face it Tom.’ He repeated Tom’s choice of opening words to give his reply added bite. ‘It was no way a penalty and I worked bloody hard to get back and make the tackle. And you are supposed to tidy up after my mistakes. That’s your job. Mine is to score and make goals. I did. Twice. That’s usually enough to win any game.’

  Brian paused for breath. ‘And if Donkey Slogger hadn’t come on, we’d have probably won, even if it went to penalties. Don’t suppose you noticed their third goal came from his mistake?’

  Brian pushed Tom in the chest again. Tom, felt he was being blamed f
or Brian’s substitution and was starting to lose patience. ‘There’s no point standing in the rain. That’s not going to solve anything. Let’s go inside,’ Tom appealed.

  ‘I’ll stand wherever the hell I want Tom.’ Brian shouted. He was well past the point of reason.

  ‘That’s up to you Brian. I’m going in the kitchen for a cup of tea. Want one?’ with that Tom turned and headed for block F.

  Brian stayed motionless outside the reception building, rain dripping from his clothes. The anger wouldn’t go away. He couldn’t believe his brother had turned against him. Tom never did that. It was his duty to stand by him. Memories raced through Brian’s mind. How often had he swept Tom’s failings under the carpet? How many times had he been generous and forgiving, all to have it thrown back in his face in his hour of need.

  Their father, Norman Hill, sat on his bench watching Brian stand in the rain taking deep breaths. He wanted to help. He couldn’t. He didn’t know how. He didn’t feel the wind. He didn’t notice the rain. He wasn’t cold. He watched as Brian turned and walked purposefully towards block F, and was gone.

  Brian took the steps two at a time and marched into the kitchen. ‘What’s the matter with you? You’re supposed to be my brother. Why are you being such a bastard?’ Piercing eyes. Sharp accusing looks.

  Tom poured his tea, walked over to the soft chairs in the corner and sat down. Brian stood over him waiting for a reaction. He got it in calm but determined words. ‘You’re the bastard Brian. You’re the one speaking without thinking, expecting everyone to bend over backwards for you. You’ve been like that all your life. To be honest Brian … I’m sick of it and it’s time you took a good look at yourself.’

  Brian’s voice leapt an octave. ‘Look at myself? What about you?’

  Tom came straight back, his expression blank but serious. ‘You have no humility Brian. You can only see things from Brian’s point of view. What’s best for Brian? That’s how you approach everything.’