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

by Paul Harris

  Sometimes; not very often, but sometimes; one finds oneself doing something completely unexpected and out of the ordinary. For instance, instead of sitting in the boozer getting wrecked with your mates and watching the match on the big screen, you find yourself not sitting in the boozer, not getting smashed, and totally missing the football. It’s a curious feeling when that happens and not always an altogether terribly good one.

  Pascal, the porter opened the elevator door on the ground floor and we stepped out. My lady and I glided across the hotel lobby and handed our room key in at reception. “Merci,” said Moke, quite condescendingly. The receptionist nodded, pleasantly, between gritted teeth.

  Actually, we were bickering when we fell out of the lift. Moke tripped over a chair on our way across the lobby. I responded by laughing vociferously; and, because of that, Moke irritably flung the key across the reception desk. The receptionist sneered at us, looking down the full length of her sizeable nose, as if we didn’t belong in her hotel. And, we didn’t!

  “So, what shall we do now?” asked Moke, once she’d ceased being quite so irritable.

  “Nice view,” I commented, facetiously; deliberately ignoring her question, and watching the buses queuing at the terminal on the opposite side of the road instead. She held my hand and I instantly recoiled. “Get off!”

  “I was only…” she began to protest before I interrupted and quashed her pleas.

  “Getting fresh, that’s what you were doing,” I reproved, mockingly, “it’s far too early in the morning for that kind of nonsense. Let’s go for a little walk.”

  “Under the moon of love?” she beamed, rather too pleased with her own wittiness.

  I grunted and dragged her out onto the street. It was a nice day. The sun was out, the sky was blue, there wasn’t a cloud to spoil the view; and, for once, I had a good feeling about it all. I looked up at a couple of seagulls that were having a fight in mid-air above our heads. They may have been courting; it’s hard to tell; a bit like people really. They were going at each other good and proper, flapping and squawking. I laughed at them; they reminded me of Moke and Muffin when they’re out pissed and they’ve only got one chicken drumstick left between them. “Watch the buggers don’t shit on your head,” I said jovially.

  We pressed on into the throng of holiday makers and I even let her hold my hand. To be honest, it felt quite nice, besides which, we wouldn’t bump into anyone around here who knew us.

  “Let’s go to the beach,” she said, and we crossed the road and walked past the bus terminal. “Here’ll do,” and we jumped over a small wall onto the pebbles.

  “Pick your spot, my little princess.”

  In response to which comment, she stopped dead in her tracks and turned to look at me. Her smile was so wide that it was stretching her face out of composition. “What?”

  I shrugged and licked my dry lips, nervously. She walked on, gaily, until she found a lovely spot nestling amongst shingle, seaweed and broken glass. She began to strip down to her bikini. It was a nice colour, at least; bright yellow with sky blue polka-dots.

  It was still early in the morning but the beach was lively enough. Huge meatheads wearing continental-strength tans were bowling along hand in hand with girls from the Littlewoods catalogue. Children were running with no immediate purpose and with no care in the world; ice-cream smeared across their ruddy faces.

  I gazed across the sand at patches of naked, sun-tanned flesh and nipples poking up into the warm air; and at the peerless Mediterranean blue of the sea as it kissed the shore. The air was full of the joyous screams of excited children.

  “Beautiful!” I muttered, beneath my breath.

  “Oh,” gurgled Moke, with a frog in her throat, “that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  She cleared her gullet and spat a lump of phlegm onto a clump of black, dried seaweed. I heard someone to our distant left express their disgust. There were globules still trickling across her face when she stunned me by saying, “I love you, you know.”

  I stared at her vacantly, not knowing what to say. Several seconds passed, but it seemed like minutes. I had to think of an appropriate response. I could feel myself beginning to blush with embarrassment. She was still beaming; I’d never seen her so happy.

  “Wipe your face,” I said, eventually, and handed her my handkerchief. She dabbed away. “You do realise,” I explained, “that I was referring to the vista?”

  “The what?” she asked, offering me my handkerchief back.

  “No, thanks, keep it for next time. The panorama, the view, it’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

  “It’s too late to try to retract now. You said it and I heard you. You’re obviously taken with my new swimsuit.”

  I sighed, and decided to change the subject. “Why don’t you take it off and go topless?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “You’ll have white boobs otherwise. Look, loads of birds are topless.”

  “Well, not me.” She opened her bag and took out a book, then wriggled herself into a more comfortable position.

  “I know why not,” I ventured, but she wasn’t taking the bait. I waited but she made no response. “You won’t take your top off because you’re worried that people’ll think you’re a geezer.”

  “Oh, we’re back to normal, then,” she cried as she swung a right hook into my stomach.

  After, she’d had enough tanning and colouring, and had started to take on the appearance of the previous night’s chicken tikka, she slammed her book shut and started fidgeting with the straps of her bikini top. She had a bright white stripe across her back and a sweet wrapper stuck to her shoulder blade. She took her sun glasses off and pouted at me. “I need a shower.”

  “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

  She winced as I peeled the Opal Fruits wrapper off her shoulder. It left behind it a most extraordinarily shaped white patch. As we stood up and shook ourselves down, brushing debris from our clothes and sun-damaged skin, we heard a loud crash. We leaped over the wall, and back onto the promenade, expecting to find evidence of a road accident but there was none. In point of fact, the street was eerily quiet. The earlier crowds had dispersed and you could hear the shop signs squeaking and rattling in the developing breeze. Everything seemed so still, as if the end really was nigh.

  “Thunder?” whispered Moke, fretfully.

  “Surely not when the sun’s shining?” The moment that I opened my mouth to utter these words, I realised that the sun was no longer shining. Dark clouds had gathered above our heads alarmingly quickly. Having us exactly where it wanted us: on open ground, wearing nothing but shorts, vests, and flip-flops; the weather played its trump card, and opened up with an apocalyptic downpour directly above us.

  We got soaked through in about three seconds flat and ran all the way back to the hotel; me dragging Moke behind me, and her getting snagged on umbrellas, litter bins and bus shelters the whole way.

  It seemed as though every guest in the hotel had done the same thing, as the foyer was packed when we got back. Families and couples were milling around, shaking themselves down, and waiting for the rain to stop. This was never going to stop. It was battering down on the glass awning over the entrance as if it had every intention of bringing that structure down on the porters head.

  We took a shower together; freshened up; kissed; made love; had another shower, and then went down to the restaurant for lunch. We dressed up warm and snug and, once more, were holding hands as we were seated. We smiled, inanely, at each other throughout the starters, and I winked at her, lovingly, as the main course was served. It was so warm and comforting, sitting there together, and the rain driving down outside.

  I soon snapped out of it, though, as I watched her chewing the tail off a fresh baked haddock with her enormous teeth and then spitting it into the sugar bowl. After we’d eaten, we sat for a while gazing, wistfully, at each other and holding hands across the table cloth; ten gnarled white
claws exploring one another next to the pepper pot and tartar sauce.

  I caught the waitress’ eye. She seemed uncomfortable and immediately diverted her attention to a family of five at another table. She had been watching us, poker-faced, anticipating an appropriate opportunity to clear away the dirty plates and offer us the dessert menu. I blushed, and pulled my hands away, thrusting them into my jacket pockets.

  “Let’s go and watch TV in the bar,” I suggested.

  “TV? At this time of day?” She gave me a quizzical stare and didn’t sound at all convinced.

  “Football results, though.”

  She tutted, clearly still unconvinced.

  “Come on. What else we gonna do?”

  She raised her eyebrows. I ignored her silent suggestion and led the way.

  “But, you don’t even like football,” she moaned as we entered the bar and put a bottle of chianti on our room number, “You told me yourself.”

  I shrugged. “That’s true.”

  Since meeting Broomhead, Frank, and the others, it had become a Sunday morning ritual to buy bundles of newspaper and check the results, even if we’d seen them in the pub the afternoon before, coming in on Desmond Lynham’s teleprinter. I’d sit there in a quandary as they poured over league tables and goal differences, and debated goals that shouldn’t have been allowed but were, and goals that should have been allowed but weren’t and other such indecipherable nonsense.

  “You don’t even understand football,” she went on, tripping over a cue as we squeezed around the pool table.

  “Let me carry the wine,” I insisted.

  “I know more about it than you do.”

  “Oh, look! Doncaster getting beat again!”

  We sat in a corner smoking cigarettes and listening to Len Martin reading out the classified football results. Moke looked bored and started fidgeting, extracting various items from her hand bag and arranging them on the table in front of us. She nudged me, violently, when I, inadvertently, dropped cigarette ash on her vanity mirror.

  Because of the weather, it was busy in the bar too, particularly with families. It was knee deep with small children running around, stuffing crisps into their mouths, and falling over. Occasionally, one of them would collide with a piece of furniture and start bawling. They’d run back to their mum, get it kissed better, and then do it all over again, just for the attention.

  I’m particularly uncomfortable about children being allowed to run around untethered in bars and pubs. They’re so noisy. There’s a distinction between noisy kids and noisy drunkards like me. My behaviour’s acceptable anywhere that alcohol is served (because they got me into that state in the first place), but a child’s isn’t. It’s the social equivalent of me turning up at a nursery school, completely off my head, and careering around all over the place while they’re reciting “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”.

  “Let’s play pool,” yawned Moke, stuffing her things back into her bag.

  “Shut up,” I laughed, “you can’t play to save your life.”

  “Show you,” she grinned as she went over to the table and racked the balls up. I followed her over and rearranged them into the correct sequence. Then, I chalked a couple of cues and handed her the one with the loose tip.

  She took the cue ball and, placing it on the spot, leant over the table and began to practise her cueing action. I slapped her bottom, playfully; but, perhaps, a little too firmly. She produced a tiny yelp. Then, she gave the ball an almighty Moke-like wallop. It sailed straight over the cushion at the far end of the table. A little girl ducked in the nick of time as it flew between her parents who were sipping coffee at a beaten copper table.

  “Go get it!” screamed Moke as it ricocheted off the side of a fruit machine and disappeared into the lobby.

  “Why don’t you go?”

  “I can’t. I’m laughing too much.”

  I grinned and went scampering after it, stopping to apologise to the couple and their coffee as I passed them. As I bowed, courteously, I couldn’t help but notice the lady’s generous cleavage. Well, you can’t, can you? As I raised my eyes, and met her husband’s piercing stare, I could tell he’d got my card marked.

  “It’s quite alright,” he said with a wave of his hand, as if he was dismissing me. They stood up and left, almost immediately, taking their annoying offspring with them.

  The ball wasn’t easy to find. I must have been a sight for rain-sodden eyes as I crawled around the hotel lobby on my hands and knees, searching under sofas and tables, and behind red silk curtains. Eventually, I found it perched amongst some tourist board information pamphlets in a magazine rack on top of one of the polished teak tables, next to a pretty porcelain vase full of plastic flowers. I held it up in triumph.

  By now, half the people loitering in the lobby were amusedly watching my little performance. I was pleased that I’d given them something to smile about amidst their pathetic rain-soaked holidays. Who in their right mind would spend their summer holiday in Southend-on-Sea, anyway?

  I bowed, left, right, and centre, and then went back to the bar, where Moke was still giggling to herself.

  This time, I broke and nothing went down. “Still gloomy,” she said.

  “What?”

  “The weather. Look.” I glanced towards the window. She was right; it was still hammering down outside. There was a murmur behind me and I heard the tell-tale thud as she potted a ball. I turned around and she was smirking, complacently, at me. “See?” she said, “I can play.”

  “Actually, I didn’t. See, I mean.”

  About half a dozen children had gathered to watch us play and their parents were watching on, mindfully, from a couple of rows behind; that’s how bored they were. Moke was egging them on to cheer her and jeer me, as if I were a pantomime villain. It was like playing at the Crucible against the peoples’ champion. I looked through the window again and heard an even louder murmur from them, followed by one or two childish chuckles.

  The patio doors ran the full length of the bar and opened out onto a small terrace with white plastic tables and chairs scattered about it. Beyond that, there was a small side-street, lined with bottle-brown terraced houses. A blue and white double decker bus was attempting to turn into it but had got trapped between parked cars that were on double yellow lines too close to the corner.

  The bus driver reversed out of the street, clumsily backing up the traffic all the way down the main road. He tried again and ended up in an even worse predicament. He was raucously sounding his horn and banging the steering wheel with rage.

  There were more mutterings of approval from over my shoulder and I turned in time to see another of Moke’s red balls drop into a pocket. She had another ball hanging over one of the centre bags and duly potted that too. She winked, pretentiously, and performed a little jig around the table.

  I ignored the provocation and returned my attention to the street outside. The irate driver was out of his bus now and was trying to bump an old Ford Granada up onto the path. “There’s no way he’ll do that,” I mused to myself, “probably belongs to Regan and Carter anyway.” He gave up and crossed the road to a Volkswagen Golf on the other side. “Better chance with that,” I muttered.

  Moke’s audience purred again as another ball thudded home. I didn’t even bother to look this time. A big geezer with long black straggling hair had come out of one of the houses and was leaning on the bonnet of the Granada. “Here we go,” I thought. I imagined how the conversation was going: “What do you think you’re doing?” I chuckled to myself.

  “What you laughing at?” asked Moke. I’d almost forgotten about her.

  “Oh, nothing, just carry on.” She did, and another ball went down.

  The Granada owner and the bus driver were face to face now, and almost touching noses. The bus driver was frantically remonstrating with his arms, outlining the state of affairs, but, at the same time, backing off as the Granada owner pressed forwards. Soon, the bus driver was almost backed
right up against the front of his bus. He dropped a shoulder, sold a little dummy that Johan Cruyff would have been proud of, and darted back into his cab. He flicked the ‘V’ sign at his ferocious enemy, slammed the bus into reverse, and took a wing mirror off the Golf as he beat a hasty retreat.

  I heard a child snorting with amusement, and I turned on my heels just in time to catch Moke, with her back toward me, picking up one of my yellow balls in her hand and placing it in an impossible position against the end cushion. All my balls were in impossible positions. She then rolled one of her own balls next to a pocket with her finger-tips. I stood over her, with my hands on my hips, as she took up her cueing stance. She must have caught a glimpse of me out of the corner of her eye because she looked up and smiled, ruefully. Realising that she’d been caught in the act, she stood up, with her arms out-stretched, as if appealing for clemency; just like a footballer appeals to a referee moments before he brandishes a red card.

  “Told you that you couldn’t play,” I said, shaking my head, disappointedly at her. I went to the bar, ordered myself a pint, lit a cigarette, and stayed there on my own to demonstrate my disdain. A little boy started booing me, then all of the children joined in, and then their parents followed suit. I stubbed my cigarette out, resignedly, and turned to face them. Moke was leaning on her cue, not a red ball in sight; even the black had been potted by some means or another. She smiled, apologetically. I returned her smile and went and gave her a hug. As she embraced me, she poked me in the eye with the tip of her cue. The crowd dispersed, and went back to their Nescafe and Ribena.

  It was still raining as we ambled to the station later that afternoon and boarded a train to Liverpool Street. It was one of the old style trains with the compartments that were supposed to be phased out about four hundred years earlier, as a response to the railway murders. We found an empty compartment and slid the door shut behind us.

  That happy feeling was still upon us so we snuggled up close together in the corner. That happy feeling had never endured for this amount of time before without a rift developing. I kissed her on the cheek and she sighed. Then she kissed me on the cheek. “I do love you,” she whispered.