Trilogy: The First Three Books in the Amber For Go Series

by Paul Harris

  “More lines than Clapham bleeding Junction!” shouted Broomhead, at the top of his voice. I covered my face in embarrassment. Everyone laughed and Broomhead laughed the loudest of all.

  Next up was a pretty mixed race girl. She was long and thin, and well-proportioned. She looked clean and tidy, and, when she caught my eye, my stomach turned. This one went all the way, right to the raw. She wriggled and cavorted on the floor, legs splayed, up in the air, from one side of the stage to the other, her fingers pulling her lips apart. The glistening pink was in stark contrast to the smooth chocolate of her thighs.

  When she, finally, got to her feet, she strode over to me with her knickers in her hand. I felt sick as she patted me, condescendingly, on the head. Everybody’s gaze was upon me and I was trembling with the indignity of it. Broomhead took a half-hearted lunge at her with his out-stretched fingers, and I vowed that I would never come to a place like this again; I’d grown out of it.

  She wheeled away before Broomhead could make contact with her soft naked flesh, and strutted back to the stage, collected her clothes, and disappeared into the make-shift changing room. The place was wild with enthusiasm. I pushed my chair back and stood up.

  “Where you going?” asked Broomhead.

  “Toilet.”

  “For a wank?” he laughed.

  “To pewk,” I replied, sternly.

  When I came back, I stood at the bar, with my back to the action. I put a couple of pounds into a fruit machine, even though I didn’t usually play them. Eventually, Broomhead came up for a drink and tapped me on the shoulder. “What’s up?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Nothing really. It’s just not my packet of crisps, that’s all.”

  “Fair enough.” He seemed disappointed. “What about a club later? We’ll meet up with the others.”

  “Yeah, could do,” I nodded.

  “Fancy something to eat?”

  I nodded again. “Could do.”

  “Ruby Murray?”

  It was about six when we hit the Indian. I had a chicken korma and pilau rice, no starter. Broomhead ordered four poppadoms, an onion bhajee, nan bread, lamb vindaloo, and garlic fried rice. We ordered a pint of lager each and had almost finished them by the time the poppadoms arrived. Broomhead took one and began to nibble it around the edges, dipping it into the yoghurt sauce, and nibbling again. “This place I’ll take you tonight,” he said, taking a big bite and scattering crumbs across the tablecloth and into the dips, “if you don’t pull in there, well…”

  “How many times have I heard that before?” I looked up at him and noticed that his eyes were only half open.

  “For real, man,” he nodded, and he continued to nod, all the way down, until his chin crashed into the plate of poppadoms. By the time his vindaloo arrived, he was snoring and muttering merrily to himself.

  The waiter smiled at me, almost sympathetically. “Always same,” he said, “always sleep. But, always pay. Good customer.” He laid the dishes out on the table around Broomhead’s head until there was no more space. “More beer?” he asked me.

  I nodded. “Please.”

  When he came back with it, I was nudging Broomhead, and trying to wake him up. The waiter smiled, as he placed the fresh glass in front of me and removed the empty one, as if to say, “You’re wasting your time, pal, he’s out of it,” and he would have been quite correct.

  When I’d finished my meal and also seen to Broomhead’s bhajee, I tried to rouse him again. For a moment, I thought I’d succeeded in reviving him as he raised his face out of the poppadoms, groaned and shifted in his seat a little. But then he nose-dived into a bowl of rice.

  I tried for another half an hour to wake him up, the duration of another pint of woefully flat lager, without any success. But, when the waiter came with the bill, he was sitting there, bolt upright, wallet in hand, and eyes wide open. “Always do that,” he grinned, “Wasn’t hungry anyway.”

  He paid for the whole meal, mine as well. I objected, and tried to force some cash into his hand, but he wouldn’t take it. I think he knew that I couldn’t afford too much just then. The waiter took his card and handed him a napkin. Broomhead looked confused. “What for? I haven’t eaten anything.”

  “It might be to wipe the rice off your face,” I prompted.

  He dabbed, bashfully, at his face and the little maggot-like grains dropped from his chin, and his cheeks, and out of his nose, and out of his hair, and landed back in the bowl where they belonged. “Let’s go and meet the others,” he said.

  I felt fired up and ready, almost excited. When the waiter returned with Broomhead’s credit card and the formalities were completed, we both sprang to our feet, thanked him profusely, promised we’d be back very soon, and then fell down the front door step on the way out.

  It was dark outside now, and turning chilly. We walked down the High Street a little way, in silence. As it started to spit with rain, Broomhead darted into an open doorway. I followed him and we were back in the first pub. It was dark and filled with smoke now, more like a private drinking club than it had been earlier in the day. Although, still quite sparsely populated, it was much noisier now.

  A handful of old drunks clung to the bar and turned around to look at us with their whisky-twisted faces. You could tell that they recognised Broomhead but they couldn’t pull themselves together enough to acknowledge it so they just stared, open-mouthed and speechless.

  We circled the bar and went around to the back, where it was even darker and smokier. There was a mild atmosphere of menace, vaguely hinting at violence. A tiny puff of marijuana pervaded the air and, in the corner, sitting at the same table, was the mob from earlier.

  “Hello again,” said Frank, who was sitting with a pretty, well-defined girl, who was running her fingers through his cropped fair hair. “Enjoy your day out with the nonce case?”

  I laughed. “The curry was alright.”

  “Fall asleep?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I confirmed, reassuringly.

  “Always does,” replied Frank.

  Most of the boys had been home after the lunchtime session, had something to eat, and picked their girls up, if they had one, to bring them out for the night. But, one of them had been there all day and he was rolling a bit. Earlier on, he’d struck me as being quite obnoxious, but I’d disregarded the thought as I didn’t know any of them. Now, he came and sat down next to me with an almost threatening swagger about him.

  I looked at him with a cold stare. He returned it, but only for a moment, then he smiled and held out his hand. I shook it, limply; I’d already decided against him.

  “Bangla!” he half growled, half slurred.

  “Sorry?”

  “They call me Bangla. You’re Rodney, I already know. This lot think the sun shines out of your arse already.”

  I was going to ask him why they called him Bangla but, instead, I asked him why they thought the sun shone out of my arse, except I referred to it as my bottom, and this made Frank and Broomhead laugh. Bangla didn’t laugh. He thought I was having a pop at him, and maybe I was being a little tongue in cheek. He snorted and went back to where he’d been sitting, resting his feet on the table, amongst the glasses, as a show of defiance.

  Broomhead took the seat beside me. “Take no notice of him,” he muttered, “he’s a wanker. Front him up and he starts wobbling all over the place.”

  “What’s that?” asked Bangla, sensing he was the subject of conversation, but remaining just out of earshot.

  “Nothing. Just talking, mate,” replied Broomhead, then under his breath: “Go fuck yourself.”

  “Come on boys,” interceded Frank, “let’s have one for the road.” Joanne stopped grooming him like a mother chimpanzee, and Frank went to the bar and got the full round in.

  He was one smart looking geezer; perfectly pressed suit, brown brogues that were so shiny that you could see your face in them if you got close enough to his feet. I looked at Joanne and she was looking across the bar at him
too. You just knew that she was thinking exactly the same thing. She caught my eye and smiled, nervously.

  By the time we left, there were so many of us that we had to order four cabs. They took ages to arrive. Frank persuaded the barman to call the taxi firm twice to find out where they were. He was up for having another quick drink while we were waiting but no one else wanted it.

  “We’re pacing ourselves, ain’t we, Rod?” said Broomhead, with a sly wink, the meaning of which I failed to comprehend.

  Nevertheless, Frank came back with fourteen single whiskies. The girls were retching at the thought of drinking straight Scotch; some of the guys were too. I was warming to the idea; it all felt quite liberating.

  Frank was one of those characters who didn’t need to say anything but you still felt compelled to do as he wanted. Although, extremely pleasant, he had a strong personality, and complete control over every situation. I guess he was the unelected leader of the gang, and me, and Broomhead, and the rest, were his subordinates. He was a magnanimous leader, though, and everybody seemed happy enough to let him run the show.

  We got to Camden Town around nine. Me, Broomhead, Frank, Joanne, and another couple, Oscar and Fluff, went into the first pub we came to. Bangla and the others cut off and went their own way, further down Parkway, where they’d arranged to meet someone; everybody agreeing to meet up later at the final destination.

  We entered near the pool table, and no one was playing. Frank and Oscar racked up first while I got the drinks.

  The staff were surly and indifferent. Fluff and Joanne sat on stools at the bar, chatting about who knows what. Broomhead and I stood nearby, watching the game, and tossing up to see who would play the winner.

  “So, what’s with Bangla?” I asked Broomhead.

  “I told you, he’s just a wanker.”

  “I know that. I mean, why do you call him Bangla?”

  “Oh, right.” He glanced over his shoulder, down the bar, and towards the door. “He’s got a distinct dislike for our Asian brothers. You know; Bangladeshis, Pakistanis, Indians; you name it, he don’t like them.”

  “Oh,” I said, not really knowing what to say.

  “Orientals, Africans, West Indians,” Broomhead went on.

  “Okay, I got the picture.”

  “Irish, Scottish, Welsh, German, French, Dutch….”

  “Really! I got it. So, he’s a hateful little bastard.”

  “Don’t think he likes northerners either.”

  “What, like me?” I asked.

  “You’re okay, you’re naturalised now. You’ve been civilised,” he laughed, and we both sank into our pints. “And you know why Oscar’s called Oscar?” He passed a glance towards the pool table.

  “Because it’s his name?” I conjectured.

  “No, because he’s so bloody good at acting. He acts skint when he’s flush, flush when he’s skint, brave when he’s scared, and scared when, well, when he’s shitting himself.” He laughed again.

  “And Fluff?”

  “Well, that speaks for itself, don’t it?” He took another swig of warm lager. “And do you know why Frank’s called Frank?”

  “Because he gets straight to the point?” I shrugged.

  “No, because it’s his name,” he answered, looking ever so pleased with himself.

  I won the toss, so I had to play Frank next. He broke, potted nothing, and I went up next and seven-balled him. I saw then, and not for the last time, that Frank didn’t like getting beaten, not at anything. He wouldn’t shake my hand and, instead, he went straight to the bar and ordered another round of drinks.

  “I thought we were going,” protested Joanne.

  “In a minute!” snapped Frank, “I have to kick some ass first.”

  I took his comment as tongue in cheek, mostly because I chose to take it that way, but I’m not sure he meant it humorously.

  Meanwhile, Broomhead had fed some coins into the table and was setting up the balls for another game. “Brilliant!” he muttered to me as he removed the plastic triangle from the baize. “You can play a bit, can’t you? Let’s see.”

  This time, I broke, and the game went right down to the black, which I finally cut into the centre pocket. Broomhead grasped my hand. “Game!”

  “Close though,” I replied, modestly.

  Frank took some coins from his trouser pocket and approached the table.

  “Shouldn’t Oscar be up now?” I asked.

  “Oscar don’t play!” snapped Frank.

  “Or one of the girls?” I offered, gallantly but ever so weakly. Broomhead looked at me and slowly shook his head.

  “No,” said Fluff, “no thanks. We need to go now. You only have time for one more game. Let Frank play or he’ll only grumble.”

  Frank cast her the look of a resentful child who had been duly admonished for picking his nose, then he returned his intense gaze towards me. I shrugged, and let it go. He was standing, silently chalking his cue, looking me up and down with, what I perceived to be, disdain.

  “You break,” I said, and he did.

  Frank was a good guy. Deep down, he was a really good guy. If he hadn’t been, I’d have seven-balled him again. I knew that I could, but he needed to save face a lot more than I needed to piss everybody off. So he won and, as a consequence, we all left there happy, and as friends, and with Broomhead giving me the occasional knowing nudge.

  For my part, I’d learned a lesson: it has to be Frank’s way, Frank has to win, and no one else matters. Eventually, Frank would take me under his wing and I’d have the respect of them all, except, that is, for Bangla who didn’t respect anyone or anything. You needed to respect something; everybody needed to. Frank knew that, but I never did find out what it was that he respected, although, I always suspected it was Joanne, despite the casual manner in which he treated her. It both frustrated and amused me that, in my heart, I knew that I was bigger than all of them, even Frank; a lot bigger.

  Broomhead had said that we were going to a club but it turned out to be a pub with a loud jukebox that happened to stay open late. It was packed to the rafters. Bangla and the others were already there when we got in and, although we all acknowledged each other, we stood apart. There were too many of us to all huddle together.

  As we swayed to and fro with the surge of the crowd and the rhythm of the music, Joanne came across a couple of girls that she’d been to school with. They may have been in her class back in those days but they weren’t anymore. They had the looks and the mannerisms of a pair of unfortunate creatures from a Tolkien novel or an episode of Star Trek. It was difficult to think of the lovely Joanne coming from the same race as Muffin and Moke let alone the same netball team.

  They were sisters. You just knew, because they were of identical height and build, had the same sharpness of tongue, and shared the same piercing look in their little dark eyes; a look resembling that of a starving buzzard seeking out an ill-fated field mouse. Fluff joined the three of them and they began to chat and giggle and cast meaningful glances this way and that.

  Frank, Oscar, Broomhead, and I stood by, drinking, and watching them. It must have made Frank and Oscar soar with pride to be able to stand there, glasses in hand, and compare their girls to Muffin and Moke.

  As the night progressed, we started mingling. Broomhead defected to Bangla’s crowd, and Frank and Oscar were discussing a trip to Margate that they were planning with the girls. I didn’t know many people there, and things were dying off for me a bit. I was beginning to feel like going home and spending my first night alone in my derelict bedsit.

  Then, Joanne approached me with a half pint of Guiness in her hand and a feint pastel pink in her cheeks. “Muffin’s married but Moke’s available,” she giggled, foolishly, and then went back to them. I stuck the neck of my bottle of Budweiser in my mouth and swallowed, nonchalantly.

  Then, she came again. “Well?” she demanded, and stood there, with her hands on her hips, waiting for a response.

  “Well, wh
at?”

  “That’s what she told me to say.”

  I shrugged. “Who?”

  “Moke. What’s wrong with you?” She was becoming frustrated with my evasiveness. Muffin, Moke, and Fluff were watching us. I smiled, awkwardly.

  “Sorry, Joanne, I’m just knackered. It’s been a hell of a long day.”

  “Why don’t you come over and join us? The conversation may be a little girlie for your taste but you’ve got no one else to talk to.”

  She had a point. “Yeah, okay, let me get some drinks first. What you girls drinking, by the way?”

  Moke was off her head, completely. Initially, I thought it was because she was drunk or stoned or high but her sister took great pains to assure me that she was always this way, as if it was a selling point. Muffin was proud of Moke’s devil-may-care attitude to the world.

  It turned out that Muffin wasn’t too thrilled with her marriage. “Humdrum,” she said. Her marriage was humdrum, her husband was humdrum, her home was humdrum; her whole life was humdrum, according to her. Here she was, out partying all night while he was at home looking after the kids and plotting his next big contract. She lived a life of luxury and never did a day’s work in her life. I pitied the poor bastard, humdrum or not.

  I looked at Moke as if she were some kind of curiosity in a circus act, and she may well have been had she had the inclination. But, she was intriguing and the more I had to drink, the more palatable the idea became. So, it appeared that the match was made. Joanne and Fluff were delighted that their mission had been successfully accomplished. The bells were chiming, the birds were singing, and Itchycoo Park was playing in the background as Steve Marriott leapt from my umpteenth bottle, stood in front of me, and said, “Good grief, Rod, look at the state of it!”

  The state of it was okay. I think. I squinted through a drunken haze and tried to focus on her. She stood in the centre of a spinning throng and smiled back at me, confidently. She was fun; she and I were going to have bags of fun.

  Some dude in a brown leather flying jacket barged through the middle of our little group. I dropped my bottle on Muffin’s foot and she yelped, somewhat over dramatically. Joanne lost her balance and careered into another group of people who were standing near to us.