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

by Paul Harris

  “Bangla!” The landlady poked her head around the corner and waved her fist at him. “Put my pool table back, and leave those kids alone!”

  He stared at her, summing it all up, weighing up the pros and cons, a torrent of expletives right on the tip of his tongue. I wondered if this would be the last time he’d be allowed in here. Oh, how I hoped so.

  “Righto,” he said, meekly. I smiled and he caught me. “What?” he glared.

  “Tosser!” I mouthed at him, silently; and I knew that I’d made another mistake. You see, people like Bangla, you’ve got to take out good and proper, first

  Time, or they fester.

  He sat, glaring at me for about ten minutes. I thought he was going to start crying. Then he sank into a deep sulk and, while he was quiet, most of us began to relax and enjoy ourselves and, eventually, there was a nice steady hum of happy banter. Some of them, though, weren’t comfortable seeing Bangla just sitting there in silence with his arms folded and his legs crossed and his lower lip chewed raw and brutal indignation simmering away within. On occasion, our eyes met, and I glared back at him with equal conviction as I saw the profound malice which scarred his swarthy features.

  Joanne and Moke went and sat next to him and attempted to cheer him up. I rolled my lower lip in consternation, and Frank cracked his pool cue down on the table. Broomhead had had the bold temerity to win a game and invited me to play him next as there were no coins down on the table.

  As Broomhead broke, Bangla sprang to his feet, seemingly reinvigorated, and hit the jukebox; literally hit it, with his fist. The glass panel front, however, didn’t shatter, didn’t even crack. We were absorbed in our game, but could hear the clink of metal as Bangla dropped a pound coin into the slot, followed by another, and then another, and another. The music blasted forth. “Turn it up!” he shouted, and the volume was increased for him.

  I sighed, casting a glance at Broomhead.

  “What’s the problem now?” demanded Bangla, marching up to me with, what seemed like, genuine intent.

  “What you got?” I asked, scornfully, “Bionic ears?”

  “What’s wrong with the music?” he stood there with his hands on his hips like John Inman. I didn’t quite know how to take it or how to respond.

  Eventually, I did respond. “More Oasis!” I explained, “More, more, more and more Oasis!”

  “Take it you’re not a fan?”

  I couldn’t really say that I wasn’t. I’d even got tickets for their Earl’s Court show, but I was just so sick of hearing their stuff played everywhere I went; pubs, clubs, supermarkets, radio, television, restaurants, shopping malls, absolutely everywhere. “Crap!” I comment, purely to antagonise him.

  “Well, you got another nineteen tracks to labour through after this one, so chin up.” He stroked my chin and I gave him what was supposed to be a withering look. It, obviously, didn’t have the desired effect because he flicked one of my earlobes before he sauntered back to the jukebox. Broomhead and I continued our game.

  Moke went off to the toilet and when she came back, Bangla cut her off at the steps. They chatted for a while. He was smiling and laughing and getting animated. She was laughing too, and I could guess what he was saying to her. She fetched her jacket and slipped it on.

  “What’re you doing?” I asked.

  She shrugged, nonchalantly.

  I glared at her, imploringly, and she returned me the most foul and bitter stare imaginable, before following Bangla out into the street.

  This was Bangla’s way of flexing his muscles; he knew that it was the only way he could get to me. He was a coward and took advantage of Moke’s melancholy disposition just to undermine me.

  And as for Moke? Bangla had been right; this was the way of their world; and, maybe, I was too soft. I walked up to the bar and, pensively, ordered a large Jack Daniels. I could hear Frank calling me. “You alright?” he was saying. I ignored him and ordered another JD.

  “Coke with that?” asked the young barman, naively.

  “No, straight!”

  “I’ll get that,” said Broomhead, calmly, coming up on my shoulder, “In fact, make it two.”

  “You don’t drink JD,” I said, without looking at him and without thanking him for the drink.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Nah!” I shook my head. “You don’t.”

  After another double, I could hear the buzzing getting sharper in my head. Marriott was singing in the distance. Something wasn’t right with him. He looked sad. He was singing “Shakermaker”, then “Slide Away”, then “Columbia”, and more Oasis, and yet more Oasis. He winked at me, gravely, and I winked back.

  Broomhead broke my trance. “You sure you’re alright?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You’re winking to yourself.”

  I smiled, half-heartedly, and ordered more drinks. “Let’s get blasted, Bob!”

  “Plenty of time. We got all day,” he replied, with uncharacteristic prudence.

  Then, I started thinking about Ronnie Lane sitting in a wheelchair, potless. Not a pot to piss in, after all that; after all that; because the bastards turned him over. “Bastards!”

  “What?” asked Broomhead.

  I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder. “Let ’em go; they ain’t worth it.”

  Later that day, the foolish Moke was both surprised and disappointed when Bangla hurried her out of bed. She was admiring her naked body in the bedroom mirror when she heard him pick up the telephone and dial a number. She pushed her breasts up with her hand and tried to fashion a cleavage. She was thinking about me and trying to justify her actions in some confused and disjointed way. She was so wrapped up in her own sexuality that she had convinced herself that she was in a position to choose between us.

  “Hi,” said Bangla, into the phone, “Sam, it’s me, I’ve been trying to get through to you all afternoon. I’ve given it some thought.”

  Moke was climbing into her white lace knickers, wiggling her bum in the mirror. She knew Samantha well; we’d gone out together plenty of times. She froze when she heard him mention her name. “No, nothing,” continued Bangla, “been sitting in all day watching telly. Come around tonight, we’ll get a takeaway or something.” He put the phone down.

  I awoke in the middle of the night, still drunk, to the sound of thunder shaking the front door. The duvet was on the floor and I was shivering. I pulled it back onto the bed and wrapped it around me, dreading the hangover I’d have in the morning. After tossing and turning, for what seemed like an hour, I submitted to insomnia, and got out of bed again. I staggered around in the dark, barely able to keep my legs from buckling beneath me. The red LED lights of the alarm clock were showing five past three. I walked to the window and adjusted the blinds so that I could see the lightning, if there was any. The stars were out, twinkling brightly, from horizon to horizon. There wasn’t a single cloud in the moonlit sky; no lightning; no thunder. I traced Orion’s imaginary sword upwards until the lintel of the window obscured the tip from my view. There was another rap of thunder and, this time, I went and opened the door.

  Moke was standing there, in tears, just as I’d imagined she would be sooner or later; mascara, in little rivulets, across her face and lipstick smudged around her chin.

  “Go home,” I told her.

  “I’ve been home,” she snivelled. She tried to reach out to me and put her arms around my neck, but I held her at bay with the palm of my hand. “I can’t sleep,” she said, “I’ve been so very, very stupid.”

  “Yeah.” I was trying to remain dispassionate about it all but, when I heard myself speak, it was clear I was beginning to wobble.

  “Sorry!” she entreated. “I’m so sorry. What else can I say?”

  I shrugged.

  She shivered in the chill of the night air. “Are you going to let me in?” She gazed into my eyes, and I realised that mine were welling up too. She was so distraught, and so contrite, that I w
anted to hold her in my arms and sooth her. I wanted to wipe away her tears and lavish compassion on her but, I knew, that I would never be able to forgive her; and that these doubts would linger between us forever.

  “Go home,” I repeated, and then shut the door.

  I went back to bed, worrying about her, wondering if she’d get home alright. We all do silly things in the spur of the moment, but she had gone too far. Even if I could have found it within myself to forgive her, Bangla would never let me forget. He would use it as a stick to beat me with for all time. I had to remain steadfast and I resolved to sort him out, once and for all.

  When the alarm went off at six, the hangover still hadn’t arrived but it would come; and strike with a vengeance when it did. I felt wearily nauseous and my eyelids were stuck to my eyeballs. Work was a non-starter, so I had a shower, got dressed, and made myself several cups of strong black coffee. I sat on the floor, listening to CDs, winding myself up into a fury over Bangla.

  I lay sprawled there for three hours, stirring only to go to the kitchen to prepare more coffee. After playing each disc, I, contemptuously, tossed it across the room onto one of the armchairs. The empty cases piled higher and higher underneath the stereo.

  I played The Kinks, The Beatles, The Who, The Happy Mondays; lots of new stuff too. I got even more depressed to the sound of “Hatful of Hollow”, and finished off with “Definitely Maybe”. I took my jacket from the hook on the back of the front door and walked around to Bangla’s.

  He wasn’t in when I got there. He’d either gone to work or he knew that I’d be out looking for him. I hammered on his front door for five minutes, until the paintwork began to dent under my knuckles. The next door neighbour’s net curtains twitched and a middle-aged woman peered out at me. I gave her the finger; it wasn’t the sort of thing I’d normally do; it was more Bangla’s style, so she was probably used to it.

  I gave up and walked across the allotments. I could see Ginger in the distance, sweating in the morning frost. I negotiated the grid of narrow footpaths of beaten down earth, and headed for him. “What’re you up to?” I asked him, sullenly.

  “Nothing much,” he shrugged, “Not much to be done at the moment.”

  “You seen Bangla?”

  I thought the old boy looked a little conspiratorial as he shook his head. “No, why?” Then, he brightened up. “I did see little Bobby Broomhead, though, crossing over to your way just now.” As he said it, I saw Broomhead coming around the corner of my street on his way back from his fruitless mission.

  He caught up with us and gently tapped me on the back with the palm of his hand. “Alright? No work?”

  “Not today. You?”

  “Woke up ill,” he smiled. “Hair of the dog?”

  I nodded. “See you later, Ginge.”

  Broomhead and I walked across the field and through the car park in silence, until we got to the High Street, where I hesitated. “Somewhere different?” I suggested.

  “Don’t fancy the Cow then?”

  “Not really.”

  We turned left towards West Hampstead, and headed for a different boozer.

  “You didn’t invite Ginger to join us this time, then?” laughed Broomhead.

  “No! He’s Bangla’s man!”

  It was quiet in the Duke of Hamilton; just as you’d expect before midday on a Monday; as we commenced the mother of all sessions. Broomhead put the sounds on straight away; lively and cheerful, for my benefit, I suspected. We sat at the bar and chatted to the barmaid as she polished glasses and dusted down the optics. She was a pleasant Irish girl with short strawberry blonde hair cut into a smart bob. I liked the cut and told her so. She leant forward, and resting her elbow on a Tennent’s beer towel, said, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I replied, and she blushed as she looked up to see my eyes directed at the small dose of cleavage that was visible as she leant towards me. She busied herself, once more, with the glasses and ashtrays.

  “Local?” she asked, glancing towards me with her bright hazel eyes.

  “Yeah,” replied Broomhead.

  She ignored Broomhead and smiled at me. “I haven’t seen you before.”

  “We drink in the Cow normally,” Broomhead replied again, before I had chance to open my mouth.

  “What brings you in here?”

  “Fancied a change,” I replied.

  “Came to see you,” said Broomhead, glibly.

  She continued to ignore him and to address me. “I’ve never been in there. I’ll have to try it on my night off.”

  “You should,” Broomhead said, and he went off to put another pound in the jukebox.

  “Let me know,” I winked at her. She winked back.

  We heard the door swing open and someone tripped up the step and staggered over to the bar beside me.

  “What can I get you?” she asked.

  “Guiness, Siobahn,” he replied, flatly. She poured it halfway up and left it to settle.

  “Do you get in the Red Cow a lot, then?” she asked, redirecting her attention back onto to me.

  Broomhead nodded.

  “Rather noisy, isn’t it?” chipped in the newcomer.

  “The Red Cow? You know it then?”

  “No, in here, I mean!” he grumbled, “Can’t you turn this crap down?”

  I swivelled in my barstool to face him. He was well into his fifties and was heavily wrinkled. He was scruffy, dirty, and unshaven; but he wore a Barbour jacket and had a briefcase beside him. “No!” I snapped at him, “She can’t!” Siobahn topped up his Guiness and placed it before him, and then came back to me, shaking her head.

  “Don’t worry about him,” she said, tapping her forefinger against her temple. She came right up to me and breathed in my face. “Mad,” she whispered.

  “Aren’t we all?” I whispered back, pulling my face away from hers.

  “We call him Mister Bonkers.”

  “Good handle,” I nodded, admiringly.

  “We?” asked Broomhead.

  She shrugged. “Everybody, I guess.”

  “Everybody’s bonkers in our pub,” boasted Broomhead.

  “Not as bonkers as Mister Bonkers himself,” she laughed.

  “I’ll put some more music on, and don’t…” I leant toward her this time. She leant forward too, and our noses, embarrassingly, made contact. “Don’t turn it down,” I breathed, “no matter who asks.”

  She shook her head, slowly, and smiled, her lips mere millimetres from mine. “No way.”

  There wasn’t much on the jukebox that tickled my fancy. I settled for some old Motown stuff, a Blur album track (“Badhead”, I think), and more Oasis. Oasis was a mistake; more out of habit than by design. “Whatever” came on first and Broomhead put his head in his hands.

  “No worries,” I said to him when I got back to the bar, “Martha Reeves’ll be on in a mo’.”

  “Yeah?” said Siobahn, “I do like a bit of Martha.”

  “Well, if you want to dance…” I ventured, cheekily, “I’m available right up until I fall over.”

  She laughed. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “You can hold me anywhere you want to,” I smiled, disgusted with myself for using such a hackneyed line, and took another mouthful of Stella. I looked at Broomhead and winked at him, but I could see in his face that he knew it was all false: the way I was trying to be jolly and all man-about-town. He winked back and nodded, knowingly. “You wanna dance?” I asked him. He bit his lip, thoughtfully, and then smiled.

  “Who’s dancing?” yelled Mister Bonkers, at the top of his voice, and we all laughed.

  He seemed to interpret our amusement as an invitation, and crept along the bar towards us. Broomhead and I glanced at each other, and sidled away from him, just a jot. He crept a little further. We moved away again. Still, he came.

  “We’ll be in the greengrocers’ next door in a minute!” I joked.

  Siobahn laughed.

  “I wish to speak to you bo
ys,” said Mister Bonkers, with a mysterious air about him.

  “Oh, yeah? Why?” I asked.

  “I like your music.”

  “You said it was crap just now,” Broomhead pointed out to him.

  Mister Bonkers took no heed and resolutely proceeded. “You into football?”

  “No,” I replied, dismissively.

  “Cricket?”

  I shook my head.

  “Rugger?”

  We both shook our heads.

  “What then?”

  I raised my glass and surveyed its contents, affectionately.

  “But, of course,” said Mister Bonkers, “Anything besides the obvious?”

  I shrugged, uncomfortably. I could feel Siobahn, waiting for me to answer. “Only the obvious.” I looked at her, meaningfully.

  “You two gay?” asked Mister Bonkers.

  I spat a mouthful of lager back into my glass. “What?” Siobahn blushed and started polishing glasses again.

  “I just wondered,” explained Mister Bonkers, “There’s a lot of it about. Nothing wrong with it, if that’s what rocks your boat.”

  I looked around at Broomhead and his face was on the bar. His eyes were closed and he seemed so content. “Already,” I muttered, disappointedly, to myself.

  “What’s wrong with your friend?” asked Siobahn with grave concern.

  “Don’t worry,” I assured her, “he’s always like that. Ask them at the Cow about him when you go up there. They’ll tell you some tales.”

  “He’s useless,” she whined.

  “Well?” demanded Mister Bonkers, “Answer the question.”

  I looked at Broomhead again. “Although my friend is gay,” I announced, loudly, “I, myself, am, indeed, not gay.” I winked at Siobahn, who had stopped polishing glasses, and was attempting to wake Broomhead up by shaking him. “You’re wasting your time,” I informed her, “You’ll never wake him up like that. You have to give him a big clout around the head. Allow me,” and I raised my hand.

  “No!” she cried, “Don’t be cruel!”

  “Oh, Elvis!” said Mister Bonkers.

  Siobahn and I both looked at him, curiously. “What?” we asked of him in unison.