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

by Paul Harris

  “Of course! That’s brilliant!” Then, I gritted my teeth. “How much?”

  He gritted his teeth too. He dabbed his damp, flushed face with his handkerchief as he ruminated. “Look I’m claiming on it. You know what I mean?”

  He blew his nose. I nodded, but couldn’t divert my attention from the condition of the over employed rag in his hand.

  “So, let’s say fifty a week. No contract, no rent book, no social, no bullshit. How’s that?”

  I stood there, open-mouthed. Inside, I was screaming with delight. “Fifty a week?” I kept repeating over and over in my mind. “Fifty a week?” I thought, “He must be barmy!”

  “Brilliant!” I enthused, at last, unable to disguise my gratitude. “Let’s have a beer.”

  Rory nudged Broomhead, gently in the back with the toe of his Doc Martin, who immediately sprang to his feet and smiled, as if he’d been standing next to us throughout.

  “Dickhead,” muttered Rory, and then he checked his watch, handed me the keys, shook my hand, and, promptly, left. I watched through the window, as he marched off down the pavement, smearing sweat and snot all over the lenses of his spectacles.

  Ginger was still tending his allotment, when we went back over that way. We stopped again to chat and, by now, I was hoping this wasn’t going to be a regular thing; an unavoidable chore; on the way to work in the morning and on the way home at night.

  “Off to the Cow again?” he asked.

  “Looking like it,” replied Broomhead.

  “In that case,” said Ginger, as though he was going to announce a giant favour he was about to do us, “I don’t mind if I join you boys.”

  Broomhead and I looked at each other; me with a questioning expression, and him, looking stumped and deflated, shrugging, and holding up the palms of his hands in resignation.

  “Great,” I muttered, without the slenderest hint of sincerity.

  We had to wait for him while he staggered backwards and forwards to his tiny little shed and locked up his rusty spade, and then his rusty fork, then his watering can, then his trowel, and several other various horticultural instruments. He wouldn’t hear of us helping him, and he could only manage one item at a time.

  I sighed, impatiently, lit a cigarette, and leant against the shed, watching Ginger fumble with the old padlock for the very last time. The structure creaked, and shifted, under my weight. There was the distinct sound of a crack and the splintering of rotten timber. Ginger grimaced, painfully, and took my jacket sleeve, guiding me from harm’s way.

  “Careful, son,” he said, as if I’d personally and physically wounded him, “she’s been with me a long time.” They looked like an old married couple, Ginger and his shed, as they both hovered there, inseparable, on their very last legs.

  So, we went ploughing through the allotments, Broomhead and I, in our bashed-up Nikes; pulling up handfuls of root vegetables and launching them across the fields. We could hear Ginger raising objections far behind us. “Oi, oi! They’re someone’s pride and joy, they are; them carrots; that beetroot. They’re Tom’s spuds, them are; put ‘em down!”

  Every now and again, we’d wait for him to catch up. He’d be grumbling about Tom’s potatoes, so we’d tell him “bollocks” and take off again.

  As we kicked the gate open and arrived on the edge of Sainsbury’s carpark, we looked back to see him limping, forlornly, towards us, waving his fist in the air.

  “What’s up with him now?” I wondered, aloud.

  “Oh, shit!” exclaimed Broomhead.

  “What?”

  Ginger bustled through the gate, snagging his coat on the broken latch. He tore himself free and staggered towards me. “Me shed, me shed!”

  I looked, and looked; held my hand to my forehead to shield my eyes from the sun; and looked in vain. I couldn’t see his shed.

  He reeled backward and propped himself up against the bonnet of a Vauxhall Cavalier. “You’ve killed me fucking shed!”

  I was beset by a crushing feeling of guilt, but went on the defensive nevertheless. “It’s only a poxy shed. It was falling down anyway. The wind would’ve took it over sooner or later. I didn’t lean on it that hard. It needed knocking down. It wasn’t my fault. Don’t blame me. It wasn’t my fault.” I paused and looked at him, seeking some sign of forgiveness. Tears, real tears, were dribbling through the cracks in his face. “I’m sorry, Ginger. I’m really sorry.” He was gasping with irrepressible rage. “I’ll get you a pint,” I offered, feebly.

  “Get me an ambulance!” he demanded.

  “Why? You feeling bad?”

  “It’s not for me!” he growled, “It’s for fucking you!”

  “What about a pint instead?” I offered again, conciliatorily, “It’ll make you feel better.”

  “A new fucking shed’d make me feel better!”

  We helped him down the alley, as he lashed out with his arms in rejection of our assistance, and across the main road, and into the Red Cow. He brightened up a little when I placed a light ale and bitter in front of him.

  By the time I’d been to the bar for the fourth consecutive time, he was ticking over nicely, chatting vociferously to one of the locals whom he knew, about Nelson Mandela, Yasser Arafat, and the break-up of the Eastern Block.

  “Pool?” asked Broomhead as I was about to join them and expound my theories about the future of the former Soviet Union. “I’ll pay,” he added.

  “Bloody hell! That’s good of you,” I commented, sarcastically.

  He was smirking as he put some coins into the slot in the table.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” Then, he laughed. “It would have been cheaper to buy him a new shed.”

  “Well, I did wonder if there was any chance of you putting your hand in your pocket today.”

  He was racking up the balls, and started spinning the triangle on the table. He always did that when he racked up.

  “I didn’t demolish his shed, did I?” He whipped the triangle away from the balls, and broke.

  “I didn’t demolish your shed, did I?” I retorted, “So, why am I buying your drinks all afternoon?”

  He was scanning the table as the balls rolled around, bouncing off the cushions. “Nothing down,” he finally replied. I leant over the table, cued, and potted a red. “Besides,” he went on, “I got you the flat, didn’t I?” I sighed, and then potted another red. “Shot!” he said, tapping the butt of his cue on the stained wooden floor.

  I was smacking the black ball into one of the middle pockets when Rory walked straight up to us. “Good shot, Rodney,” he complimented, “You got anything for me?”

  I reached deeply into my jeans pocket and place two twenties and a ten into his outstretched hand. “Lovely. I’ll see you in here next weekend? I don’t want to be coming around the flat; it’s your gaff now.”

  “No problem. You having a beer?” I offered.

  “No.” And, with that, he left again.

  “Under the thumb,” muttered Broomhead.

  “So, what? Nice geezer.”

  “Weird geezer.”

  “Well,” I contemplated, “true, I suppose.”

  There was a clinking in the background. Turning around, we saw Ginger tapping his glass on the bar and grinning at me, slyly. “See?” said Broomhead, “It would have been cheaper to buy him a new shed.”

  I got three more pints and we went over to keep the old boy company. But, by now, he just wanted to talk gibberish, prattling on about his fictitious war record; about carrots and shallots and runner beans and insecticides, and slugs, and snails; and about his tremendous libido. “Libido?” I interjected, with surprise, not to mention terror. Broomhead winked at me. But, after a while, he mostly talked about having another pint.

  “Another pint?” I cried, exasperated.

  “Love one,” he replied to my rhetorical question.

  Broomhead came with me to the bar. “Look what you’ve done,” he sighed, “you’ve unleashed a m
onster.”

  “How are we going to get rid of him? I’ve got to meet Moke later.”

  “God only knows.”

  “I’ll have to leave him with you.”

  Broomhead grabbed my arm. “No!”

  As we walked back to the table, another old boy walked into the pub. He seemed somewhat agitated. He looked around, slowly, as if he was searching for someone, and then, spotting Ginger, he headed straight for us. Ginger seemed nervous and pulled his cap down over his face in a quite comical attempt to evade detection. He was too late.

  “Ginger!” The newcomer, gently, placed his hand on Ginger’s shoulder.

  “Hello, Tom.”

  “Ginger!” Tom was softly spoken; and well-spoken too; he seemed like a nice chap, but something was troubling him. There was a slight tremor in his voice. “What on Earth’s happened to my shed?”

  “What do you mean, what’s happened to your shed?” asked Ginger, innocently.

  Broomhead started laughing. I glared at him. “You knew all along, you bastard!”

  “I assure you, it’s no laughing matter,” said Tom to Broomhead, “I said that Ginger could keep some of his tools in it but at no time did I authorize it’s total demolition.” He sank into the chair next to me.

  “Would you like a drink, Tom?” I asked, politely.

  “Well, I suppose I may as well. There’s no turning back time. I’ll get them.”

  “No, no,” I insisted, “I’ll get you one.”

  As I stood up, Ginger tapped another empty pint pot on the table. I looked toward him and he shrank from my enraged glare. Then, Broomhead amazed me by saying, “Don’t forget me, Rod. New flat and all that.” I pursed my lips, held my breath, and walked straight out of the pub. I went back to the bedsit to pack my scant belongings instead.

  I hauled my suitcase, kicking and screaming, across the allotments and up the steps to Rory’s maisonette. The key turned in the lock first time, and I was overcome by a wave of excitement. Once inside, I slung the case onto the bed and sprawled on the settee for a few moments, searching for cracks in the plaster. There weren’t any.

  Swiftly retreating from the precipice of sleep, I sprang to my feet and used the telephone on the coffee table to call Moke. “I know that it’s later than we planned,” I explained, “but I’ve been busy.”

  “With who?” she asked, pointedly.

  “What do you mean, with who? Just busy; I’ll explain later.” We arranged to meet outside the swimming baths and I left right away, running back to the High Street to catch the bus.

  When Moke arrived, I was sitting on the steps, smoking a cigarette, and picking the dried mud out of the seams of my trainers.

  “Come on, then,” she said, pushing the revolving door, and trapping her gym bag in it.

  I got to my feet and followed her in, and I soon found myself standing in the shallow end of the pool. I’d done four lengths, and that was me; knackered. Moke still hadn’t emerged from the changing room. Goose pimples were starting to come through on my shoulders and my thighs were chafing where the trunks that I’d hurriedly borrowed off Broomhead were cutting into them.

  The pool wasn’t busy but those who were there were mainly toothless hags with yards of excess flesh trying to force it’s way out of their one-piece swimming costumes. Then, in came my girl, like a lump of wet cod in a fishmonger’s window, slithering along the side of the pool, searching through drooping eyelids for her Poseidon.

  “Moke!” I called, as she shuffled past for the third time, “Here!” She smiled, and sat on the side of the pool, happily dangling her legs into the chlorine rich water. She twanged the top of her ruby red bikini top. It sprang back flat on her table-top chest. I grimaced. “Where’ve you been?” I asked, “I thought you were never coming.”

  “Been making myself look nice. There’s no need for all that sniggering. You could do worse.” She dropped into the water, at my side, and kissed me on the cheek.

  “I thought you were a ghost walking in then; frightened the life out of me,” I said, speaking without thinking, as usual. “The ghost of Swiss Cottage baths or something,” and then I made a silly ghost noise.

  “Why? What’re you talking about?” A frown was furrowing her freckled brow.

  “Nothing,” I said, reassuringly, smiling and returning her peck on the cheek in the most tender way possible, given we were in a public swimming pool.

  “No, Rod, I want to know what you mean. Why am I a ghost?”

  She was pushing me into a corner and she never did that without a reason; there was always an ulterior motive. “You know, sometimes you make a spur of the moment remark; totally meaningless, and harmless too…” I could tell by her face that she wasn’t buying it. “Oh, never mind. You’re just very white, I mean pale, that’s all.” I held onto her hand and waited, anxiously, for her to respond to this revelation.

  She calmly and deliberately seized her opportunity. “Yes,” she agreed, musingly, “that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  “Really?” I asked, both surprised and relieved, and then narrowed my eyes, suspiciously.

  She nodded, slowly, as if she was pondering the remark I had made. “I think you’re right.”

  There was definitely something coming; something I hadn’t been expecting; some kick in the balls from somewhere. I could tell this by the way she was running her tongue around her lips and raising her eyes to the ceiling of the leisure centre as if seeking divine inspiration; a sign.

  “You know what? We should go on holiday; together!” she screamed, and then she clapped her hands together in a Eureka style celebration as if she’d just thought of the idea, and hadn’t at all been planning it for days, just waiting for my big mouth to feed her the opportunity.

  And, that was the kick I hadn’t been expecting. “Oh, I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head, and then plunging it into the water, as if intent on drowning myself.

  “It’ll give me some colour. You’re complaining that I’m too pale.”

  I was still shaking my head and trying to come up with a get out.

  “It’d be lovely to go away together,” she gushed.

  I swam another couple of lengths and, when I got back to the shallow end, she was still waiting there for me to give her an answer.

  “You not swimming?” I asked, unwittingly feeding her more ammunition.

  “Nah, not here. I think I’ll save it for the Mediterranean or the Adriatic.”

  I swam over to the steps and climbed out of the pool. “Oh!” she yelped as I walked past her, “What about the Indian Ocean?”

  I rushed off to find sanctuary in the changing room. “Don’t forget to moisturise!” I could hear her calling after me, at the top of her voice. I showered and changed, and then went to wait for her in the bar; an alcohol-free bar, if you please. She rolled up with water still dripping from the end of her nose and her hair matted together in clumps like some wind-damaged roofing felt.

  “You want to know what I’ve been doing today? Got a new flat, didn’t I? That’s what I’ve been doing,” I announced, feeling exceedingly pleased with myself.

  “Yeah?” She sat down next to me and lit a cigarette.

  “Yeah?” I repeated, patting her hair down onto her head and attempting, futilely, to make it stay in place. “Is that it? Yeah? What’s up with your hair, anyway? Why don’t it stay where it’s supposed to? Ain’t you got any of that Harmony hairspray stuff?”

  She shrugged, threw her cigarette butt on the floor, and extinguished it with the sole of her shoe. “So, when you going to show me this new flat then?”

  “Now.” I rose to my feet. “Let’s go and christen it now. I’m bang in the mood.”

  She screwed up her face which made it look more unpleasant than it usually did.

  “Well, what do you want to do?” I sighed.

  “Let’s just drop in at the Cow on the way.”

  “You’re really not interested in my new flat, are you?”

&nb
sp; “It’s not that,” she explained, looping her arm through mine and leading me through the revolving door, “it’s just that, I think I’ll probably need a drink to face it. It’s bound to be a dump.” I stared down at her with high indignation and she winked back at me, playfully, but closing both eyes at the same time.

  “Was that supposed to be a wink, because it was more of a blink?”

  By the time we got back to the flat, she was drunk and it had gone dark. I had to half carry her up the steps, and then I unlocked the front door and dragged her in by the hand.

  “What a dive!” she slurred, predictably enough.

  “What do you mean, dive?” I objected, “I haven’t turned the light on yet.”

  “Oops, sorry.” Then, she started pawing me in the dark.

  I turned the light on, and I could see by her face that she was impressed. “See!” I said, triumphantly.

  “It’s alright, I suppose,” she murmured, and then tried the two-eyed wink again. “I suppose we’d better get it over with,” she continued, with a sigh of mock resignation, “Where’s the bedroom?”

  “Oh, how romantic,” I said, gesturing towards the open bedroom door, “it just fills you with…” But, she was gone, and was already down to her underwear.

  I went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth, as is my custom, and, by the time I made it to the bedroom, Moke was stripped for action, in bed, but resolutely asleep. I looked down at her, lying there in a soft little ball, all peaceful and content and, inexplicably, I found that she made me feel happier than I had ever felt before.

  I crawled into the space beside her. From the depths of slumber, and as she often did, she threw an arm around me and pulled me tight. My heart was racing. I raised her hand to my lips and kissed it with far more candour than I would ever have done had she been conscious of it. Suddenly, she twisted and pulled the quilt from over me. I tugged it from beneath her, and tugged it again and, before long, I was also asleep, leaving her spotty white bum trembling in the cold.

  Chapter Five

  Bonny & Clyde