Disco Disaster : Wednesday 29 March
The Rugby Club Disco was a Gosforth fixture—a hive of hormones, underage drinking, and cigarettes. There were girls who’d lied about their whereabouts, boys too drunk to remember what they’d got up to, and the stalwarts—regulars from fifteen to nineteen. Anyone older wouldn’t be seen dead there.
No one asked for ID; half the bar staff were underage themselves. Drinking was a Tyneside tradition, posh suburb or not. Boys downed McEwan’s Exhibition, Newcastle Brown, or rum-and-Coke; girls sipped Babycham, Cherry D, lager and lime, or shandy.
Robbie and Kizzy, living nearby, arrived to find the night already underway. A few couples had peeled off to the rugby stands to snog contentedly. Robbie, heart thumping, hoped he’d soon be one of them.
The DJ, a Bob Harris wannabe with long hair and a drawl, spun Mud, the Carpenters, Roxy Music, Queen, Thin Lizzy, even splashes of punk—The Jam, the Stranglers, the Sex Pistols—before lurching into slow numbers to encourage coupling.
By the time they got there, the air was thick with Embassy Regal, Impulse body spray, Newkie Brown, and teenage desperation.
Robbie, soaked in Denim aftershave and wearing one of Kizzy’s paisley shirts (subtle, regretful stains and all), had never looked less like himself. He decided that was probably a good thing.
The Form Photo mission was tucked inside Kizzy’s jacket. Names had been hit. Targets identified. Now it was time to act.
First on the list: Cece Noble.
She stood by a speaker, bobbing slightly, a willowy figure with soft auburn hair and a wrap dress that made her look like she’d just stepped out of Harvey Nichols. For a heartbeat, she caught Robbie’s eye. Brushed her hair back. Glanced at someone else. Looked back.
A signal?
Heart racing like a trapped budgie, Robbie approached.
“Hi,” he said.
Cece blinked. Once. Twice.
“Oh,” she said. “It’s you.” Mild disappointment softened into a polite smile.
She darted a glance over his shoulder, checking if anyone important was watching. They were. Half the room had eyes on Cece.
“Dance?” Robbie offered.
She laughed—not at him, but at the music: Orleans, “Dance With Me.”
“Not to this,” she said.
“Drink, then?”
“Bacardi and Coke.”
He guided her through the throng to the bar, hand lightly on her elbow, feeling like he might burst.
Conversation was easy. Robbie kept his eyes on hers, not her neckline. Kizzy took mental notes from the sidelines.
They danced: Steely Dan’s “Do It Again,” Boston’s “More Than A Feeling,” Roxy Music’s “All I Want Is You.” Robbie floated. When Boz Scaggs’ “We’re All Alone” came on, he drew her close.
She was light in his arms. He imagined lifting her overhead like in a ballet. She’d just told him she was applying for the Royal Ballet.
As the song ended, he leaned in—only for Cece to bend down and fiddle with her sandal strap.
Was it tactical? Probably.
Kizzy, from behind Cece, gestured wildly: “Engage mouth and lips!” Robbie froze, misreading her signal entirely.
The moment evaporated. Another boy swooped in. Cece let herself be rescued.
Retreating to Kizzy’s side, Robbie groaned.
“Right, lover boy,” she said, taking his hand. “Time for a pit stop.”
They dashed home—through the car park, across the Great North Road, into their house—and up to Kizzy’s bedroom. She peeled the battered Form Photo off its card backing, smoothing it flat.
“Dart two,” she said, handing him the darts.
First shot: miss.
Second shot: thwack.
“Helen Laidlaw,” Kizzy announced, peering at the impact.
“Keeps a horse. Collects commemorative thimbles. Youngest in the form. Birthday: late July.”
Robbie stared at her. “You’re making this up.”
Kizzy grinned. “For Cece, you might need a dog. For Helen, start riding. Develop an interest in antique thimbles.”
“I didn’t think it was going to be this complicated,” he muttered.
Back at the disco, Kizzy scanned the crowd.
“None of the girls from Wylam or Riding Mill made it,” she said. “No India Armstrong-Jones. You’d like her. Tracey’s skulking about though.”
Robbie spotted a girl glancing away sharply. Tracey McAdam, maybe? Hard to tell. No one looked like they did in uniform.
Kizzy pointed. “There’s Helen. Dad’s probably around. He played fly-half for Gosforth, once.”
Robbie was about to ask how Kizzy knew that when Helen approached. Kizzy slipped behind the bar to help Donna, leaving Robbie to fend for himself.
“What’s Kizzy like in class?” he asked Helen, trying to break the ice.
“Mischievous. Her and Momo—surprised they get any work done,” Helen smiled.
They chatted about music (“No more David Soul, please,” Robbie pleaded), and Robbie realised Helen’s dad was the DJ, explaining her presence—and occasional winces.
Village People’s “YMCA” got the girls stomping in flares, arms aloft. Robbie grinned at Helen from the edge of the dance circle. She grinned back.
They danced. Drank. Danced again.
It wasn’t bad. Not Cece, but not bad.
Then, during a slow one, Helen dropped the bomb:
“I have a boyfriend.”
Robbie’s heart sank. Genuine boyfriend, or polite brush-off? He’d never know.
Helen drifted away, towards a cluster of older lads. Robbie, smarting, headed for the bar.
Across the room, Tracey McAdam watched him—sharp, calculating, the look of someone recording everything for later.
Robbie smiled awkwardly. Didn’t recognise her.
Tracey kept staring.
She’d seen it all: Robbie bouncing between girls, checking in with Kizzy like a soldier reporting to HQ.
Something was going on.
The DJ switched to punk. Boys pogoed like lunatics. Robbie joined them out of sheer bloody-mindedness.
Later, as he and Kizzy crossed the car park for home, they passed the stone bus shelter where couples snogged obliviously.
Robbie spotted Tracey. Mark Jackson, a rugby player, was latched onto her neck like a vampire.
He turned away, laughing.
They didn’t know they were being followed.
Tracey had extracted herself from Mark as the No.45 bus arrived, bundled him aboard, and doubled back. Her instincts buzzed.
Whatever Robbie and Kizzy were up to, Tracey intended to find out.
And maybe—just maybe—she’d start a game of her own.
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