August 1999 was a hot one. During the Summer break from college I would spend the morning writing my dissertation in the public library on Queen Street and then stroll back along the prom in the afternoon. All the men seemed to go about shirtless, except for me who favoured a t-shirt and a woolly jumper, which pleased my Mother, if not the merciless fashionistas of the North West.
Fleetwood is just up the road from Blackpool. Concentrating on the belly tattoo I missed the swastika on his right hand and the sores on his chest.
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