A Helping Hand

Anxious tourists drove in a single line of traffic trying to take in the devastation, curious onlookers staring into camera viewfinders, shutters snapping at the speed of light, capturing timeless images of sadness and tragedy.

A young female reporter pointed over the campsite and talked into a TV camera.

Trees around the site stood blackened, incinerated by the heat. Pieces of green and white fabric, presumably the remains of what used to be tents, hung limply from metal posts and the remains of burned clothing and shoes littered the grass.

The campsite was swarming with emergency service vehicles.

Paramedics carried stretchers. Ambulances speeding in and out of the site in a fanfare of sirens and flashing blue lights, taking the dead and injured to hospital. The Fire Service fighting tirelessly, trying to extinguish the last of the burning embers.

The pungent stench of human flesh hung in the air, rows of green plastic shrouds embracing the unmistakable shape of lifeless human beings.

Everywhere you looked you saw death.

A reporter informed them that a tanker delivering liquid gas to the campsite exploded under pressure producing a propylene gas cloud that spread quickly across the site. Someone lighting a stove ignited the gas and a devastating ball of fire consumed everyone in its path.

The fire at EL Cordoba campsite claimed more than two-hundred lives.

The taxi drive back to Barcelona seemed like an eternity. Hardly a word was spoken. The devastation, the confusion and uncertainty, the fate of Sally and Kelly had left them both speechless. They prayed in silence.

After purchasing two train tickets that would take them from Barcelona to Paris the following day, they decided to spend their last night in the city.

The two girls weren't really interested, but nonetheless they listened to their compelling narrative of the fire at the El Cordoba campsite. The girls were only interested in sex and money and they intended to make their last night in Barcelona memorable.

But it would come at a price.

The clock on the church tower had just registered midnight when they met the two girls having a drink by one of the coloured fountains.

The sixties was the decade of free love, a liberated society free of any boundaries, the advent of 'The Pill' providing a promiscuous path for those who were willing to take it.

Endless legs disappeared into the smallest of mini-skirts and pieces of fabric the size of a handkerchief barely covered their breasts. The only thing missing was a 'fuck-me-quick' hat on their heads.

It certainly looked like their luck was about to change.

"Wake up Mark!" Andy shouted, holding his head in a state of nervous panic.

"She's gone and the bitch has taken all my fucking money," he blurted, his face twisted with rage, searching his pockets before prompting his friend. "Have you checked you're pockets?" Andy asked, choking back a lump in his throat. "I can't imagine they would take my money and not yours," he said, answering his own question.

Ignoring the hammer banging inside his head he jumped to his feet. "SHIT!" he spluttered in reply, searching through pockets he didn't know he had, grunting and cursing under his breath at the inevitable outcome. "The cash I had in my jeans and shirt pockets has gone," he confirmed, lifting his shoulders in defeat and snarling his anger through gritted teeth. "Fortunately, I still have a few pesetas and some francs, which I had hidden inside my money-belt," he declared, snorting a sigh of relief.

Andy's suggestion to buy the train tickets the day before proved again to be an invaluable decision. After praising Andy for his forethought, he quickly calculated that they probably had enough money to buy a few beers and something to eat during their journey to Paris.

After swapping notes about their sexual experiences, they accepted what money had been taken was a small price to pay for what the girls had offered in return.

Their holiday was now over and it wouldn't be long before they were back in the UK.

As they left Ipswich and headed back to Gateshead, Ruth appeared to be a little subdued. She seemed to lack her usual enthusiasm and her smile held a trace of sadness.

Once they had settled into the journey Ruth spoke to her son in a soft sympathetic voice.

"Andy, I'm concerned about your grandmother's health. She requires daily care and attention that I can't give her living in the North East."

After blowing her nose into a scented handkerchief she paused to collect her thoughts.

"I've asked her to come and live with us in Gateshead, but she refused. She said she wants to spend her final days living in the house she shared with...your grandfather."

She caught sight of her son staring back through the rear view mirror.

"I'm just letting you know that if things don't improve we might have to move to Ipswich."

The seasons slipped away from warm summer days into cold winter nights, eventually melting into the welcoming spring of a new year.

Mark and Andy continued their close friendship. At times they were almost inseparable.

But although their closeness made it difficult for Mark and Ruth to see each other, it kept him informed of Andy's whereabouts at all times.

They waited patiently for opportunities. They didn't come. Ruth couldn't wait.

After a lot of subtle persuasion from his mother, Andy agreed to carry out some maintenance work at his grandmother's house in Ipswich.

No risk. No uncertainty. No furtive apprehension. Just a week-end of amazing sex.

Ruth showed him different ways to make their bodies connect and how to arouse a woman during foreplay, making sure she reaches ultimate pleasure.

She spoke with authority, much like a school teacher giving advice to a pupil.

"Ask her what she likes. Find out what turns her on and what turns her off. Remember there are some women who enjoy oral sex and anal sex but there are others who are offended or embarrassed by it. So if you don't ask, you will never know."

The sex was physical, heated and extremely vocal. They fucked in the missionary position. They fucked standing up against a wall. They fucked in the bedroom, doggie-style in front of the mirrored wardrobes. They fucked on the couch. They fucked over a table. They fucked on the floor. They fucked over the kitchen sink. They dropped onto the floor in the sixty-nine position, her on top of him, him on top of her, two bodies joined together in a union of suffocating passion, two bodies copulating in an endless display of oral and anal sex.

She mothered him. She fucked him. She sucked him and fucked him. She swallowed his cock. She swallowed his sperm. She stole his heart.

It was early in June when he received the news that would change his life forever.

Ruth informed him that she was moving to Ipswich in September to live with her mother.

Although the news was somewhat expected and he knew he would miss Andy's friendship, the pain he felt in his heart for his mother would always have a deep and everlasting effect.

Saturday the 30th September 1967 was a day he would never forget.

It was 6.45.am and he hadn't closed his eyes all night.

He had spent most of the night casually thumbing through a book and admiring the parting gift from Ruth, the new wrist watch and book a reminder of their time together.

Ruth told him the book was an informative study carried out by 'Masters and Johnson on the reaction of Human Sexual Response' during different stages of sexual arousal.

Choking back a lump in his throat he read the inscription out loud.

"To my dearest Mark... You will always be in my thoughts. All my love... Ruth."

The clock on the bedside table told him it was almost 7.00.am.

He leaned over and pressed a black button on the radio.

Tony Blackburn greeted the early morning listeners.

"Good morning everyone...Welcome to the exciting new sound of Radio 1."

The Move started singing, 'Flowers in the Rain.'