Chapter 1
From my hiding place in the bushes, I stared through the leaves at the black leather biker boots that had appeared on the woodland path in front of me. I’d hoped to see a pair of white, size eleven stilettos, belonging to my new roommate Bull, but instead, my eyes focused on the buckle straps that ran up the front of the gnarly footwear as I tried to recall seeing anyone at the ’80s themed house party dressed as The Terminator.
With dawn fast approaching I’d decided to take the shortcut through the woods. A metallic screech, I’d heard moments earlier, alerted me to the presence of someone and I’d stopped to hide, hoping Bull would soon catch me up in his Tina Turner outfit.
I was reminded of the games of hide and seek I used to play with my grandad when I was little. He would get on his hands and knees and crawl around the house looking for me. I’d always hide in the same place — the wardrobe in the bedroom. I’d wait excitedly in black silence.
Then the dull thuds would begin as he came up the wooden stairs, slapping each one for dramatic effect. It worked. My heart would race faster as he inched his way across the landing — then silence. I’d wait in the darkness, taking slow, shallow breaths, desperate for the game to end as the bedroom door slowly creaked open. The thudding would resume louder than ever. I knew it was only my grandad, but in my mind, I imagined a terrifying monster getting ready to pounce. The thuds became deafening, and before he could find me, I’d burst out of the wardrobe and leap into his arms. The game was over and I couldn’t have been happier.
Desperate for this game to end, I prepared to jump out of my hiding place when I noticed something glisten next to the boots. It was the blade of a shiny new spade. Adrenaline shot through my veins.
I heard a Zippo lighter ping open — tobacco smoke began to overpower the crisp woodland air. I remained motionless. One snapped twig now and I’d have to explain what I was doing hiding in the woods at five o’clock in the morning dressed as Rambo.
If only I’d waited for Bull to finish off the last of the scrumpy. It had been a surreal sight, seeing him in a blonde wig, ill-fitting leopard print dress and stilettos, holding the plastic barrel above his head trying to finish off the last dregs. But I needed at least a few hours sleep before The Freshers Ball the following night and decided to head back to our student house in Boscombe.
I’d moved in a few days earlier with all my worldly possessions — a bin liner full of clothes, a duvet, a packet of cheap Turkish cigarettes and a book on palm reading which I hoped would help me woo a few of the more adventurous female freshers.
The book had come with a free gold-plated necklace and small pendant in the shape of a palmistry hand which now dangled around my neck. It twinkled in my peripheral vision and I quietly clasped it in my fist.
The lighter snapped shut and through a gap in the leaves, I saw a man’s blood-soaked hand place it into the pocket of a dark green trench coat before he continued on his journey. My eyes followed and as he came into full view further down the path my relief turned to horror. Slung over his shoulder was a large object, wrapped in a dark grey tarpaulin. I watched, terrified, as he disappeared deeper into the woods.
*
“Fudge...Fudge...Fudgey...Wake up!!”
Keeping my eyes shut, I desperately tried to remain asleep.
“Come on, Fudge, it’s eleven o’clock, fancy going for a fry up? We need some fuel in the tank if we’re gunna make it through today,” Bull said in his broad Birmingham accent.
Images from the previous night flashed through my mind — flaming sambucas, shell suits, tequila slammers, blonde wigs, lager, tequila worm, barrel of scrumpy, shiny spade, blood-soaked hand. My eyes sprang open only to be confronted by Bull’s thick, hairy legs thrusting out of the skin-tight, leopard print dress he was still wearing. He stood over me and picked up a book from my bedside table.
“What the fok is this? The Beginner’s Guide to Palm Reading. You don’t believe in any of this rubbish, do you?” he said returning it to the table.
“Oh no, I thought it would be a good way to chat up the ladies or at least give me an excuse to hold their hands,” I replied, slightly embarrassed, before quickly changing the subject.
“Mate, I think I saw something terrible in the woods on the way back from the party.”
“Not doggers?”
“No, there was a man. His hand was covered in blood. He had a spade and was carrying something wrapped in tarpaulin over his shoulder.”
I paused before dramatically adding, “I think it was a dead body.”
“Shut up!! You must have dreamt it. I walked through the woods not long after you. I’m sure I’d have noticed someone carrying a dead body.”
“I wish I had dreamt it.”
Bull walked back to his bed, retrieved the contact lenses he’d placed overnight in a glass of water on his bedside table and began placing them back in his eyes.
“You did eat the worm from that tequila bottle. They say that’s a hallucinogenic.”
I vaguely recalled the incident.
“It might have been the worm, but it felt real enough. Do you think I should call the police?”
“And say what? You got paralytic last night, ate a hallucinogenic worm and saw someone in the woods carrying a dead body?”
I thought for a moment.
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Come on then, do you fancy going for a nice fry-up?”
“Yeah, are you getting changed?”
“No, mate, it’s The Freshers Ball tonight, it will save us coming back later.”
Still wearing my combat outfit, I got out of bed, picked up my black wig off the floor, repositioned it on my head and went to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. Looking up from the sink into the mirror, I hardly recognised myself as I swished back the long synthetic hair with a shake of my head.
Out on the landing, Bull knocked on the other two bedroom doors to see if our new housemates wanted to join us.
“Jim, Micky,” he shouted.
When neither yielded a response, we stumbled downstairs and headed out through the kitchen at the back of the house. We’d only moved in a few days ago and already a mountain of dirty crockery sat in the sink, and the bin was overflowing with various takeaway containers. We stopped at a traffic light near the back door which had just changed from green to red.
“What on earth is that doing in here?” I asked.
“Fok knows. It’s one of those temporary traffic lights you get at road works,” replied Bull. “How can it still be working?”
We followed a yellow cable that trailed out through the back door, down the driveway and out onto the road where we found some minor road works, another traffic light and a large industrial battery pack. Thankful no traffic was on the quiet back road, we quickly returned it to where it belonged.
“Who do you think did that?” asked Bull as we headed off towards the high street.
“Well, to be fair, the state we were all in last night it could have been any one of us.”
We struggled to recall our final movements of the previous night. Jim and Micky were prime suspects, but before we could come to any conclusion a sign in an off-licence window distracted us.
“Five-gallon barrel of scrumpy only twenty pounds,” shouted Bull excitedly.
“Yeah, I bet it tastes like battery acid.”
“Perfect, that’s just the way I like it.”
Pressing our faces against the window we stared at the barrels of scrumpy stacked up inside. A large lady stepped out of a nearby doorway followed by a warm pungent smell of stale cooking oil. The sign above her head read The Halloween Café. We shuffled along and began peering through its window. Toy spiders, plastic skulls and witches on broomsticks dangled from the ceiling. Several eerie paintings hung on the walls. It wasn’t clear if the cobwebs in the corners were real or fake. Without a word, we looked at each other and nodded.
Inside, a rotund man in soiled chef’s whites stood behind a well-used serving counter swigging a can of strong European lager. Behind him was an open plan kitchen where a line of cooking appliances along the right-hand wall bellowed out a wave of heat that oozed over the counter into the eating area. On the left-hand side was a selection of fridges and freezers, all covered in a fine layer of yellow grease, desperately trying to shield their contents from the heatwave.
Flames flickered out from two large eye-level grills. A blackened frying pan sat on a large gas ring occasionally spitting out hot oil as it waited to frazzle its next victim. Underneath this were the metal doors of a double oven. To one side was a deep fat fryer, its wire basket sat just above the boiling oil waiting to plunge in its next payload. Either side of a closed-door at the back of the kitchen hung some eerily realistic skeletons of varying sizes.
“Blimey, what have we got ’ere then? Rambo and his missus?” he bellowed as he stealthily hid his drink behind the counter.
I gave a half-hearted explanation for our appearance whilst scanning a laminated menu. The dishes were aptly named — Spook-getti Bolognaise, Hungarian Ghoul-ash. We opted for two Frightening Fry-ups, grabbed a couple of newspapers from the rack on the wall and sat down by the window.
A burly man with thinning ginger hair entered the café sporting large mirrored sunglasses, a rugged camouflage jacket and a pair of old black work trousers which were pulled over the top of a pair of muddy boots.
He ordered beans on toast and made his way over to the table in the far corner. My eyes were drawn to his boots. Poking out from the bottom of his trousers was a familiar-looking buckle strap.
Instinctively I looked up. Unsure if he was staring at me, I noticed my panicked reflection in his sunglasses. A bedraggled waitress appeared and slid two plates of fry-ups onto the table.
I turned to Bull and whispered.
“That bloke in the corner was staring at me.”
“Well, it’s not often Rambo and his wife come in here for breakfast,” Bull replied without even looking up from his newspaper.
Behind me, I heard someone else enter the café. A stocky man in a scruffy denim jacket brushed past me. His large bald head shimmered with a thin layer of sweat and I couldn’t help but gawp at the tattoo of a pair of angel’s wings that covered the back of his scalp. He made his way towards the man in the corner and sat down opposite him as I continued to marvel at the impressive ink work.
Slowly, I unravelled my cutlery from a cheap paper napkin whilst secretly listening to the conversation that had begun.
“Did you manage to bury her?” whispered the newcomer.
My knife and fork clattered noisily onto the table as the words swirled around my head. The conversation stopped and I could feel them both staring at me as I fumbled to pick up my cutlery. Without looking up I started to eat. Their voices lowered, but I could still hear them.
“The ground was quite soft so it didn’t take long to dig the hole.”
The room began to spin. I clumsily placed my knife and fork down and gripped the sides of the table.
“No one saw you then?”
“No, thank goodness, the last thing I wanted was coppers everywhere.”
Bull’s knife glistened as it cut into his sausage. I looked again at the boots. Whilst I studied them the waitress appeared and gave him a plate of beans on toast.
“Here you go, love.”
“Cheers,” he said pushing his sleeves up.
Angry red scratches covered his exposed forearms, and I instantly felt beads of sweat accumulate on my forehead.
“Lost your appetite?” asked Bull.
“It wasn’t a dream,” I managed to blurt out.
“Eh? What are you going on about? Are you going to eat that?”
I pushed my plate towards Bull as the man wearing the sunglasses reached inside his jacket. Still, the conversation remained barely above a whisper.
“Thanks for letting me borrow your motor,” he said handing over a set of keys.
Consumed with a myriad of emotions I watched as the bald man took the keys then handed over a folded piece of paper.
Without a word, it was unfolded and carefully examined. From the reflection in the sunglasses, I caught a glimpse of a man’s face on the paper before it was folded back up and put into the pocket of his jacket. I felt like I was in a movie, but hadn’t been given the script.
The bald man leant forward.
“Find him, do the business and there’ll be a nice little payout for you.”
In a daze, I managed to say, “fresh air.”
Getting to my feet I walked unsteadily outside and sat down on a nearby bench. Putting my head in my hands I cast my mind back to the previous night. My recollection was hazy at best, but I was convinced they were the same boots. And the fresh scratches on his arms would certainly account for the blood I saw.
*
Bull emerged from the café and sat down next to me.
“Alright, matey, are you ok?”
“That bloke in the café.”
“Which one?”
“The one with the sunglasses.”
“Oh yeah.”
“He’s a killer.”
“What?”
“He’s an assassin.”
“What? Are you still tripping on that worm?”
“I’m sure he’s the bloke in the woods last night. I think I recognise his boots.”
“You think you recognise his boots?”
Bull tried not to laugh as I explained what I’d seen and heard in the café.
“Do you think I should report it to the police?”
“Mate, until there are any reports of people going missing or bodies being found the coppers aren’t going to be interested.”
“But I need to stop him before he kills again. I think he’s just been given his next assignment.”
“You’ve been watching too many movies mate. What evidence have you got?”
I silently pondered the fragments of evidence I had.
“What you need is a hair of the dog. Come on, let’s go to The Seagull.”
Reluctantly, I trudged along the high street feeling like I was having an out-of-body experience. When we arrived at the pub there was only one customer — a young hulk of a man wearing a gorilla costume sitting at a table next to a fruit machine. In front of him sat his mask and a half-finished pint. Busy feeling his flexed bicep beneath the furry sleeve of the outfit, he paid little attention to our arrival.
We ordered a couple of pints before sitting down in a booth next to a pool table, at the far side of the pub, where I continued to explain my concerns.
“Fok me,” said Bull looking over my shoulder, “where did you get that from?”
I turned round to see Jim walking towards us wearing an ostrich outfit. A large smile was spread across his face as he used the wire reins to move the bird’s head backwards and forwards for comic effect.
“I’ve just picked it up from the fancy dress shop. It was all they had left.”
A small pair of fake legs dangled down from the main body of the costume which was kept in position around his waist by a set of large braces. Flesh coloured tights were stretched over his spindly legs and the outfit was completed by a ludicrous pair of rubber ostrich feet that sat over the top of his trainers.
“Good init?” he said stroking the shimmering tinsel that covered the body of the outfit.
“Where’s Micky?” I asked.
“He’s had to go looking for another fancy dress shop. Anyway, who wants a drink?”
When he returned from the bar, he squeezed into the booth next to me and I informed him of my dilemma, hoping for some sage advice. His initial concern quickly evaporated when I mentioned the worm incident and I had to concede it may have affected my memory but insisted the episode in the café was real enough.
“What’s the plan for today then?” he asked desperate to change the topic.
After a brief discussion, we agreed to go on a pub crawl around the town centre before going to the ball in the evening. Jim clapped his hands.
“Right, that’s settled then. Who fancies getting their arse kicked at pool?”
Hoping his ostrich costume would hamper his cue action, I willingly accepted. Bull remained in the booth silently studying the afternoon horse racing.
Once the balls had been racked up, Jim placed the ostriches head on the side of the table and got into position to break off. He drew his cue back as far as he could before thrusting it forward with all the power he could muster. I waited for the pack of balls to explode, but they remained untouched as the white ball flew over the top of them and off the table.
Jim stood up howling with laughter.
“Look at the state of that,” he said using his cue as a pointing stick.
Micky walked gingerly across the pub in a skin-tight sexy Santa’s helper outfit, complete with stockings, boob tube, PVC mini skirt and long blonde wig.
“It was all they had left,” he shouted over the laughter.
The game of pool was quickly abandoned and we returned to the booth where Bull excitedly revealed his tips for the day’s horse racing. Jim reached into the body of his outfit and pulled out a fifty-pound note from his wallet.
“Here you are, Micky, go and get us a round of sambucas.”
“Blimey, Jim, have you had a winner on the horses?”
He took the note and tottered towards the bar in his high heels. Jim reached back into his wallet and produced three more fifty-pound notes.
“Have a look,” he said placing them on the table.
The Queen’s head had cleverly been replaced by Mickey Mouse. On the other side was an advert for The Palace nightclub.
Student night every Monday £1 a pint, £1 a shot, £1 entry
“The more you drink, the more you save,” said Jim, “and I’m planning on saving my balls off!!”
We all agreed to pay it a visit when we heard raised voices coming from the bar. Micky, with a tray of sambucas in front of him, was having a heated argument with the barman. He examined the fifty-pound note that had been thrown back at him then turned to see us laughing and waving the flyers in the air.
“Pay the man, Micky, and damn his impudence,” I shouted.
He reluctantly pulled a twenty-pound note from his boob tube.
“You bar-steward,” he said when he returned to the table.
“Sorry, Micky, I just couldn’t resist it.”
Jim looked over, mischievously, at the gorilla in the corner.
“Watch this.”
Picking up one of the flyers off the table he gingerly rose from his seat being careful not to knock any drinks over with his outfit.
Moving the ostriches head back and forth with the wire reins he bobbed up and down across the pub. Arriving at the fruit machine next to the gorilla, he pretended to play it for a little while before casually dropping the flyer on the floor, landing it face up. With his mission complete he playfully rode his ostrich back across the pub to rejoin us in the booth. We sat in excited silence waiting for the flyer to be noticed.
Eventually, the young man took a break from admiring his muscles and casually looked around the pub. His eyes swept over the carpet before locking on to the fifty-pound note. He looked up and stared directly at us. We immediately looked elsewhere, striking up random conversations with each other, desperate not to give the game away. Stealing fleeting glances in his general direction we fought to hold back fits of the giggles as we subtly elbowed each other in the ribs. Tension rose as we waited for his next move.
He remained seated and we began looking at each other wondering if he had seen it. Then the elbowing started again, as very slowly, a hairy leg appeared from under the table and a rubber gorilla’s foot slid silently across the carpet, landing gently on top of the flyer. We tried to suppress our giggles as he calmly reeled in his catch. His hand left the table and headed downwards. Jim let out a shriek. The young man looked up and began to scratch the back of his leg before returning his hand to the table. A few moments passed before he made his next move. Again, his hand left the table and with the finesse of a magician transferred the flyer from under his foot into his pocket.
There was a brief pause before the elbowing started again. We watched as he rose from his seat, ambled across the pub then disappear into the toilets. Moments later he reappeared and we let rip with a chorus of howls, jeers and finger-pointing. Realising it was a prank, he shouted a small selection of swear words, threw the screwed-up flyer at us and stormed out.
We took great pleasure in reliving every moment the poor victim endured until eventually deciding to make our way outside to look for a taxi to take us into town. Spotting a lone one parked at a nearby rank we hurried over, desperate to secure a seat in the back. Experience had taught us whoever got in the front normally ended up paying for the fare. By the time Jim arrived, hampered by his costume, the only seat left was the front one. Reluctantly he gathered up his costume and squeezed in.
*
After a short journey, the taxi arrived in the town centre. The back seat emptied while Jim tried unsuccessfully to palm the driver off with a fifty-pound note from his wallet.
“Oh, sorry mate, I didn’t realise that was in there,” he feebly protested whilst quickly handing over the correct fare.
The Freshers Ball was a big event for first-year students and this one was fancy dress. A sprinkling of students dressed in outfits ranging from monks to superheroes were already noticeable among the normal Saturday afternoon crowd.
The Gander on The Green was the first pub we came across. Strolling past several large motorbikes parked outside we headed inside. If we’d taken the time to read The Essential Student Guide to Dorset Institute of Higher Education 1989/90 that was given to us on our first day, we would have known this was top of the Pubs to Avoid list. The description read ‘don’t be worried about the big bikes outside, it’s the big bikers inside you need to be worried about’. All heads turned as we breezed in blissfully unaware of the honest but unflattering review.
The contrast between us and the hairy bikers was laughable, but nobody was laughing for very different reasons.
My mind was elsewhere as I headed for a gap between two burly bikers at the bar. A busty barmaid approached whilst the larger of the two men, who was wearing a black and white cravat and a thick leather jacket, slowly stroked his steel grey beard as he eyed me up and down. The rest of the lads waited nervously a safe distance away.
“Four pints of Stella please.”
Feeling peckish, I leant forward trying to look round the barmaid’s heaving chest for any crisps or nuts.
“What sort of nibbles have you got?”
Without warning the two bikers lunged at me and within seconds the whole pub had erupted. Drinks were knocked to the floor as tables overturned. Big bearded men surrounded us, each desperate to land a punch as we were violently manhandled towards the exit.
Within seconds we were back outside in a heap on the pavement. I made a more convincing Rambo now as blood seeped from my nose. The two bikers from the bar towered over us.
The one with the leather jacket was about to put the boot in when the other one pulled him back.
“Leave it, Jez, you don’t want another spell inside.”
I tried to work out what had sparked this outburst of violence.
“What have we done?”
“Just because my missus has got big tits it doesn’t give you the right to ask her what sort of nipples she’s got!!”
We remained on the floor as they disappeared back inside the pub. All eyes burned into me as I tried to convince everyone what really happened.
“Honestly, I only asked what sort of nibbles she had.”
Nursing our cuts and bruises we hauled ourselves off the floor and headed to the next pub.
Fortunately, by the time we reached The Artful Dodger, we had managed to see the funny side.
Two doormen stood on either side of a set of double doors giving us quizzical looks.
“It’s ok, it’s fake blood,” I said pointing at my nose, “it’s part of the outfit.”
They waved us inside where the atmosphere was buzzing with students wearing a wide variety of fancy dress outfits. I headed straight for the toilets to clean myself up. A quick look in one of the mirrors above the washbasins confirmed I’d only suffered a glancing blow and the blood around my nose looked a lot worse than it was. I bent over to wash the blood off and heard a toilet being flushed in one of the cubicles. When I looked back in the mirror, I was startled to see a large gorilla standing behind me.
“I know you,” said an angry muffled voice.
I watched as they removed their gorilla mask.
“You played that fifty-pound note prank on me,” said the young man from The Seagull as he raised his fist in the air.
“Hang on a minute,” I protested, “I had nothing to do with it.”
He brought his fist down and prodded me in the chest with a finger.
“You were there laughing at me.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. But it was funny.”
“I didn’t find it funny. Try anything like that again and you’ll be getting some of this,” he snarled waving his fist.
I watched in silence as he replaced his mask and disappeared back into the pub. After splashing some more water on my face, I went to rejoin the others. They were stood with their backs to the bar admiring the wide variety of costumes on show. Bull handed me a pint.
“You’ll never guess who I’ve just bumped into.”
As I told them what happened in the toilet they all began looking around the pub for a gorilla.
“I wouldn’t stand for that, Fudge,” said Jim, “I’d have knocked him straight out.”
“Yeah, right, it’s your fault any of this happened in the first place.”
“There he is, over there,” said Micky gesturing towards some large leather settees arranged haphazardly on the far side of the pub. The gorilla was sat on one of the settees surrounded by several young women dressed as sexy nurses.
“Look at him. Who does he think he is lording it up with all those lovely ladies,” said Jim indignantly. “If you let him get away with threatening you now things will only get worse in the future. Go and show him who’s boss. If it kicks off, we’ll steam in and help you out.”
Micky and Bull nervously looked at each other.
Jim continued to goad me, and deep down I knew he was right.
“Come on, Fudge, are you man or mouse?” There was a brief pause before he added, “fetch the cheese.”
Something inside of me snapped, and the next thing I knew, I was strolling purposefully across the pub as my friends looked on in stunned silence.
With a short distance to go, I launched into a full-blown verbal assault hoping to stun the ruffian into a groveling apology.
“Oi, you fat, ugly, bastard.”
The startled occupants of the settee looked up. A set of confused eyes looked at me from deep inside the gorilla mask.
“Who the fok do you think you are? People like you disgust me.”
A few of the nurses began remonstrating, but my focus remained on the big hairy individual who sat conspicuously still in the middle. Sensing my outburst was having the required effect, I continued to attack.
“Why don’t you fok off back to where you came from you repulsive creature?”
The hairy shoulders began to jiggle up and down.
“Are you fokkin laughing at me?”
Infuriated, I moved forward and prepared to launch myself at the annoying beast, but an enraged nurse stepped in front of me and began shouting inches from my face.
“What has she done to you?”
I stopped dead. A mixture of emotions washed over me, as well as her hot breath and tiny amounts of phlegm, as she continued her verbal assault.
Surely, I’d misheard. I looked over the nurse’s shoulder to see the gorilla had been unmasked to reveal the swollen, watery, makeup-smeared eyes of a plump young lady who was sobbing uncontrollably. The remainder of the nurses tried to console her whilst simultaneously hurling abuse at me.
Bewildered, I turned to my friends who stood a safe distance away solemnly shaking their heads. The irate nurse in front of me took offence to my apparent dismissive behaviour and poked me so hard in the chest that I fell over the back of a settee, landing on top of Robin Hood and Goldilocks, who were equally incensed. Quickly offering my apologies and realising the situation was rapidly spiralling out of control, I hurried back around the settee.
“I’m so sorry. It was a mistake. I thought she was someone else,” I blurted, still struggling to compute the speed the pendulum had swung from me being a confident, courageous, seeker of justice to little more than a heartless, aggressive bully.
“I can explain everything. You know The Seagull?”
After a few minutes of non-stop babbling, I felt the mood begin to soften. Most of my grovelling had been directed towards the poor unfortunate soul who’d been the victim of mistaken identity. Feeling overwhelmed with guilt, I signalled to the nurse next to her to make room for me. I sat down and cautiously put my arm over her shoulder. Random strands of black hair clung to her moist round face while lines of makeup streaked from the corners of her eyes. I continued waffling, desperately trying to say something funny that would make her smile or laugh, anything to dissipate the strong sense of sadness which still lingered. Nothing seemed to work, her solemn face stared back at me until eventually, I asked,
“Have you ever had your palm read?”
She looked directly into my eyes and her face morphed from sadness to intrigue.
“Can you read palms?”
“Can I read palms?” I laughed. “Give me your hand.”
Tentatively, she held out her hand. It was a big hairy rubber one.
“You’ll have to take that off.”
I was relieved to hear her chuckle as she took off the gorilla hand and held out her real one. The purple nail varnish was the only clue it may have belonged to a female. Purposefully, I ran a finger over the lines in her sweaty palm, aware of the interest being generated amongst the attractive audience. Turning it one way, then the other, I feigned interest in the various lines that crossed through it, aware that I could soon be holding a much daintier hand and looking into more seductive eyes.
“What’s your name?”
“Amy Jones, but my friends call me AJ.”
“Well, AJ.” I looked up. “Do you mind me calling you AJ?”
She shook her head and I continued to study her hand grateful the first few chapters of The Beginner’s Guide to Palm Reading were still fresh in my mind. Gently, I moved my finger along the line that ran across the top of her palm.
“This is your heart line.”
Everyone stared intensely, hanging on to my every word.
“Wow,” I said, sensing her interest heighten.
“What? What? What is it?”
“Well, I’ve never seen that before.”
It was true. I hadn’t seen anything like it before. Her palm was the first one I’d ever read. Softly I tilted her hand one way then the other, trying to utilise the light that was available to examine it closer and add to the mystique.
Eventually, I pointed at two small lines that ran across her heart line.
“These lines, here and here, represent traumatic times in your life.”
Tapping the first one, I tried to be as vague as possible, “you lost someone close to you when you were young.”
Glancing up, I noticed a fresh tear roll down her cheek.
“And this line is very recent,” I said as I continued to tilt her hand.
“Oh no,” I paused before taking a gamble, “you’ve lost someone else, haven’t you?”
I looked up to see tears flowing freely down her cheeks and instinctively placed my hand over the top of hers.
“AJ, I’m so sorry.”
One of the nurses handed her a tissue whilst another quietly whispered in my ear informing me she’d lost her mum when she was little and her grandma had recently passed away.
Bull appeared behind the settee, shaking his head at the scene in front of him.
“Fudge, we’re going to the next pub. Are you coming?”
AJ gave me a slight nod of her head.
“Go on.”
“Hopefully, we can continue this another time,” I lied before following Bull towards the exit.
“What a plonker,” said Jim when we got outside, “I know she was a big girl, but how could you mistake her for that bloke?”
“She had the same gorilla costume on,” I protested.
*
We spent the next few hours trying out as many different pubs as we could before making our way to The Freshers Ball.
As we approached the venue, I noticed the bouncers at the entrance looking out for any trouble makers. Back home I’d had plenty of experience of being refused entry into nightclubs and knew that trying to get in as part of a group of drunken lads was not advisable.
“We need to split up. Try and find a bird who’s on her own and start chatting to her, at least until we’ve got past the bouncers. They’re less likely to turn you away if they think you’re going in with your missus.”
Nodding in agreement we all headed off in different directions.
I scanned the area and through the crowds saw AJ’s head poking out of her hairy costume. She was walking on her own, clutching her mask. The black streaks down her face had gone but she still looked a pitiful sight. I continued looking, hopeful of spotting someone else but after a fruitless search, my gaze drifted back in her direction. Not wanting to risk being turned away by the bouncers I took a deep breath and reluctantly made my way towards her.
“Hi, AJ, sorry about earlier.”
“That’s ok. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Fudge.”
“Hi, Fudge.”
“Where are your friends, AJ?”
“Oh, they went on ahead of me. I went to get something to eat. I always eat when I’m upset.”
“I’m sorry, it’s all my fault,” I said as I subtly put my arm over her shoulders.
“No, it’s not,” she kindly protested as we breezed past the bouncers into the main reception area.
A dull thud of music greeted us along with a photographer who directed us to stand in front of an archway of white balloons. He took a quick picture before gesturing towards a set of double doors.
“Would you mind finishing reading my palm?”
“Err, yeah, ok,” I hesitated. “Let’s go and find somewhere quiet. If we can.”
A wall of noise rushed out as we opened the doors to a gigantic auditorium which spread out in all directions in front of us. An impressive domed ceiling rose high above a throng of people on the dance floor some distance away in the centre of the room. The dim lighting only served to heighten our sense of amazement. Different fancy dress outfits cavorted in a cloud of dry ice as laser beams flashed, flickered and whirled around them. Tables and chairs covered in crisp white cotton circled the perimeter where a sprinkling of people were already seated.
At intervals along the walls were bright white neon signs indicating further rooms that lay beyond.
“Over there,” AJ shouted and pointed towards a sign which read Quiet Room.
The room was intimate, better lit and we could have a conversation without the need to shout. After getting a drink from a small bar area we made our way to an alcove that was recessed into the wall.
Keen to get the reading finished I consoled myself with the notion that it would be good to get some practice before moving on to my intended targets.
Once again, I held her hand and began the charade of reading her palm. It sparkled with a thin film of sweat which helped to highlight the lines as I pondered on what to say next. I recalled what the nurse had whispered in my ear and focused on the first small line that crossed her heart line.
“When I look at this line here, I get an overwhelming sense of sadness. I see a young girl standing by a grave. It’s one of your parents.”
I looked up to see her large eyes glistening. She nodded slowly.
“It’s your mum’s grave, isn’t it?”
Black streaks once again appeared on her face as she looked at me with her watery eyes and nodded.
“My mum died when I was eight. I remember it like it was yesterday. We were sat at the kitchen table. She was helping me plant a rose seed into a small pot of soil for a school project. Then without a word, she fell from her chair and onto the floor — heart attack.”
I could feel my own eyes begin to well up as I continued studying her hand.
“Aww, AJ,” I said feeling like a complete charlatan, “and there’s been a more recent death in the family.”
I drew her hand closer and after feigning intense concentration for a little longer than necessary, I met her moist, expectant gaze.
“It’s your grandma.”
“Oh, Fudge,” her voice faltered.
I put my arm around her.
“Don’t be sad, AJ. Your mum and grandma wouldn’t want you to be sad. Just focus on all the happy memories you have in here,” I said softly touching her head, “and they will always be in here,” I continued, as I placed my hand on her heart.
Bull appeared.
“Oh yeah, what’s going on here? You two love birds can’t leave each other alone.”
“No, no. It’s not like that,” I said quickly removing my hand from AJ’s chest.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said with raised eyebrows. “Anyway, we’re playing a drinking game. Jim and Micky have just bought a bottle of tequila. Are you coming?”
I looked at AJ.
“It’s ok, go and enjoy yourself. I need to go and find my friends anyway,” she said wiping tears from her eyes.
Racked with guilt, I apologised for upsetting her once again then followed Bull out of the room.
“Blimey, Fudge, first I catch you holding hands and now you’re fondling her tits.”
My protests were drowned out as he opened the door to the booming auditorium and led me to the Cocktail Room.
Inside was an impressive bar area where large mirrors highlighted an extensive array of coloured bottles. Skilled bartenders span bottles in the palms of their hands, above their heads, over their shoulders and occasionally between each other. Some brandished metal cocktail shakers whilst others poured their concoctions into different shaped glasses.
Jim and Micky were sat at a table along with a bottle of tequila, a plate of sliced lemons, a salt cellar and four glasses. Jim looked up.
“Ah, there you are, Fudge. Finally, managed to shake off that gorilla you came in with? What on earth we’re you thinking, latching on to that again?”
“She got me in, didn’t she?”
“Come on, let’s get the game started. All you have to do is repeat what the person next to you says then add your line on the end. If you make a mistake, you have to have a shot of tequila and try again. Understand?”
Having played similar games in the past I nodded confidently and sat down next to him.
I began. “One red hen.”
The first round was complete without any mistakes — ‘one red hen, two cans of lager, three purple gooseberries, four chocolate ashtrays’.
It was my go again, but before I could finish Jim, Micky and Bull excitedly banged the table shouting, ‘down it, down it, down it’.
“You said four chocolate fireguards,” Jim laughed.
My face contorted as I downed a shot of tequila and bit into the lemon. I tried again, made the same mistake and downed another tequila. I was successful on my third attempt adding ‘five sweaty sailors’.
Bull and Micky managed to repeat it word for word. Jim took a deep breath and started his go.
“One red hen, two cans of lager, three purple gooseberries, four chocolate ashtrays, five sweaty sailors, six barrels of scrumpy, seven fat gorillas…”
He paused briefly to think of the next line to add. A smile spread across his face as he continued, “eight slit sheets, slit by Sam the sheet slitter.”
My best attempt was my first. I managed to recite the first seven lines without a problem, but the shrieks around the table soon came when I said “eight shit sleets…”
Twenty minutes later it was still my go. The bottle of tequila was empty. My final effort being, “one chocolate gooseberry.”
