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

by Paul Harris

  He nodded, but remained silent.

  “Been here before?”

  He nodded again.

  I noticed a birdcage hanging from a stand in another corner. There was no bird in it, and, it looked to me, as if there never had been because it was far too clean. I wondered if it was symbolic, and told a greater story; one of liberty and repression. Then I wondered if I was reading too much into it; thinking too much; and then I wondered what I was doing sitting there in silence in the middle of the day, pissing my life away. Then, I snapped out of it as Broomhead broke his silence.

  “I brought you here to meet someone but she’s not here,” he announced. I gazed at him, expecting him to elucidate, but he didn’t. We finished off our beers in silence and then I tapped my glass on the table to remind him that it was his round. Several painful seconds passed by and then he spoke again. “She’s probably down the Boot.”

  “Who?”

  “The girl I wanted to introduce you to. She’s probably down the Boot. Fancy a stroll down there?”

  I screwed my face up, negatively. “Not really.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Come on, Bob, it’s a right dive! Let’s head back.”

  Although, quite clearly, he wasn’t completely happy with my verdict, he acquiesced, and we headed back to the station. We crossed the road, slaloming between the stacked-up traffic, and walked back in the opposite direction, passing the Thameslink station.

  “There’s a massage parlour around here, right” began Broomhead, rapidly brightening up.

  “I ain’t going to no massage parlour!” I interjected with great conviction.

  “No, no, no, there’s a massage parlour around here, just off York Way; you’ve probably seen it.”

  “No!”

  “Well, you probably have. I’ll point it out to you sometime. I was in there once, pissed up. I went in and paid the old bird behind the counter; fifteen quid, I think it was. So, she brings out this oriental girl to me; she’s nice and all that; well nice; well stacked. You know? And she takes me around back to a cubicle kind of room with just a massage bed in it, and starts giving it all that; extras and all that; price lists. So, I settle for a blow job and hand over another score. Then, she disappeared for what seemed like ages, and I’m lying on this fucking table in a towel with my dick out.”

  He stopped talking and appeared to be reminiscing. We walked on, a little further, in silence. I was waiting for him to conclude his tale, but then began to think that, maybe, that was it. “So?” I prompted. He looked at me as if he’d forgotten that I was there.

  “So?” he asked, and then seemed to regain the thread. “Well, the pair of them, eventually, woke me up at three in the morning and tried to kick me out of the gaff. Apparently, I’d fallen asleep, which you may find difficult to believe.”

  I shook my head in disbelief.

  “So, I ask for my dough back and they both stand there shaking their heads. No chance. She reckoned she’d sucked me off while I was sleeping. I stuffed my hands inside the towel and had a bit of a fumble about; not damp at all; not at all; not so much as a smear of evidence, and I told them so. The young bird with the tits insisted that she done it. So, I started going into one, didn’t I; telling them straight: either give me my money back or give me a fucking gobble! Then, the old one threatens to call Old Bill, and I’m thinking, how can you call the police, you’re fucking brasses? Then, I think to myself: hold on, son, if they do call them, it could be a bit compromising.”

  We were standing outside the tobacconists on the corner of Gray’s Inn Road. He looked at me, winked, and just said: “Know what I mean, Rod?”

  “And? What did you do?”

  “What could I do? I just left, and staggered home.”

  I laughed out loud. “You’re the only geezer I know who could fall asleep in a brothel!”

  “Massage parlour,” he corrected, “and, yeah, I know. Shall we go down the Boot, then? We’re nearly there anyway.”

  We went into the shop and bought cigarettes and packets of Wotsits; then took our lives in our hands, tangling with the traffic, as we crossed Euston Road to the station. I dragged Broomhead into the Yorkshire Rose on the mainline concourse. We sat outside on white plastic seats at a white plastic table that was stained with wine and burger relish. There were some tourists from Yorkshire on the next table clinging defiantly to their luggage. They were drinking glasses of bitter, and were horribly contorting their face after every sip. I caressed my pint glass of lager, before gulping it down.

  Broomhead got up and went inside to the bar. I watched as the InterCity trains came in from Newcastle, Leeds, and Sheffield. It made me think about the last time that I’d made the journey home. It seemed a lifetime away. I had still been wet behind the ears, innocent, and untainted by life’s prejudices. People acted as if they no longer knew me, and I felt the same way towards them. The places remained the same, the same as they’d always been, but the people had moved on without me in their lives, and, most of all, I’d moved on without them in mine. The last night I spent there, I went out to all my old haunts, and I felt lost. I knew that I no longer belonged in that place with those people. The next morning, I walked to the station, shivering in the pouring rain, and I vowed never to return.

  “Rod?” Broomhead broke my reverie. “Alright?”

  “Sorry, miles away,” I apologised.

  “What were you thinking about?” Then, he lowered his voice. “Moke?”

  I laughed, dismissively. “No! Definitely not. Other things, from long ago; nothing that matters anymore.” He placed two pint glasses on the table and slid one of them over to me. “Cheers,” I smiled.

  “You’re from the North, aren’t you?” he asked, with that typically metropolitan use of the word which referred to anywhere outside of London.

  “Sort of; the Midlands, really.”

  “Same difference. You ever fancy going back? Just jumping on one of these trains and going?”

  “No, can’t say I do.”

  He seemed to relish the idea, himself. He began to get quite excited about it. “Hit the North, eh? Me and you? Just jump on one of these trains and shoot off, eh? Dodge the fare.”

  “It’s hard to dodge the fare on InterCity trains,” I told him, “they come round checking.”

  “We could stow away.”

  I shook my head. “No, we couldn’t. It’s the wrong station for me, anyway. We need Euston.”

  He looked baffled. “What’s the bleeding difference? The North’s the North, ain’t it?”

  We, eventually, opted to catch a Thameslink train. We travelled north, but only as far as Kentish Town.

  The Cow was fairly empty when we got there, but Frank and Oscar were having a game of pool up at the top end. Frank called over when he saw us. “Playing Rod?”

  “Nah.” I shook my head.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing, I’m just not in the mood.”

  “Broomhead?” Frank always asked Broomhead second; he was always the last resort.

  “No thanks, Frank, I’d better keep him company.” I glared at him, furrowing my brow.

  “What’s up with him?”

  Broomhead shrugged. “Been like it all day.”

  I could no longer contain myself. “I have?” I hissed, “You’ve hardly spoken.”

  Broomhead laughed and slapped me, genially, on the back.

  When they’d finished their game and Frank had potted the black, the pair of them came down and joined us at the bar. They pulled up a couple of stools and Oscar ordered a round of drinks.

  “Who won?” asked Broomhead.

  “Who do you think?” replied Oscar, poking his tongue out.

  “Where you two been, anyway?” enquired Frank.

  “Out and about,” I replied, mysteriously.

  Frank looked at Oscar and Oscar looked back at him. “And we weren’t invited?”

  “Just as well,” said Broomhead, “The mad man got us
into a ruck in Wood Green. You try to show the bloke some new boozers, some new talent, and a bit of culture…”

  “Culture?” I protested.

  “There’s a market there, ain’t there?”

  “Where was the talent?”

  “And, anyway, the next thing you know, he’s wrecking the joint and kicking off with the locals.”

  “No way!” exclaimed Oscar, open-mouthed.

  “It wasn’t like that,” I mumbled, hanging my head in shame.

  “Oh, yeah,” reiterated Broomhead, “yeah, it was like that.”

  The three of them laughed and I attempted to shift the attention away from my own deeds. “You should have seen Bobby legging it down the street, like a startled rabbit.”

  “No!” said Oscar, “Not Broomhead; not running!”

  “As I recall,” retorted Broomhead, by way of vindication, “we were both running like the clappers. You’d be running too with half the Met screaming down the bus lane after you, lights flashing, sirens blaring, guns blazing. They’ve got guns these days, you know!”

  We all laughed at Broomhead’s version of events. “There weren’t no guns,” I gasped, hysterically, “just lights and sirens and old ladies with shopping trollies.”

  “If they’d have caught us, you’d have seen,” said Broomhead, earnestly.

  I took a sip of beer, and then I noticed Bangla sitting in a corner with Samantha and another girl. I stopped laughing and so did the others as they followed my gaze. He was sitting there, nodding in silence, as the girls chatted away. I had never seen him looking so demure. I guess it’s hard to keep giving it large when someone’s half ripped your tongue out of your head.

  I could feel Frank’s eyes burning into the side of my head and I looked at him. He was examining me, steadily, waiting for a reaction. “Rod?” he appealed, gently.

  “It’s not a problem,” I reassured him.

  “Sure?”

  “The past is in the past. It’s water under the bridge, Frank.” He didn’t seem convinced, though, and kept his eye on me the whole time. “Yeah, running like the clappers, we were,” I laughed, boisterously; but the laughter was fabricated and the others knew it. They didn’t join in, so I stopped and took a swig of my pint. There ensued an awkward silence until Oscar rescued the moment.

  “Anyone fancy a couple in the Duke?”

  “Why not?” said Frank, “Good call!”

  “Why?” I demanded, “Because of Bangla? It’s not a problem for me.”

  “Come on, drink up,” said Broomhead, coiling an arm around my shoulders, “You’ll be able to see your Oirish sort again.”

  “I suppose that’s a good enough reason,” I said, more cheerily, and then drained my glass of its remaining contents.

  Broomhead still had his arm around me as we walked past Sainsbury’s, but because of the early evening shoppers, there wasn’t enough room on the pavement for us to walk two abreast, so I shook him off. “How is Bangla?” I asked Frank, turning to face him.

  He looked me straight in the eye, as if he were still attempting to read my thoughts. “Quiet.”

  “And?”

  “Mended, I think; mostly, anyway. I haven’t really spoken to him.”

  “No?”

  “No. He thinks that I’ve taken sides with you.”

  I grunted. “That’s silly.”

  “No, he’s right, I have. Fair play to you, Rod; he’s had that coming for a long time; it’s always been a matter of who and when rather than if.”

  “If you do speak to him, tell him…” I stopped walking in order to face Frank properly, and Broomhead walked into me. Oscar swerved to avoid him and took the lead. “Tell him that, as far as I’m concerned, there are no sides; it’s history.”

  Frank nodded.

  “Even tell him that I’m sorry about everything that’s happened.”

  Frank cleared his throat. “I can’t tell him that.”

  “You can,” I protested, “she’s not worth all this; she never was. At the end of the day we’re all buddies. I want those Sunday afternoons back the way they were. I want Bangla back the way he was.”

  “Really? You want him to be a knob again?”

  “He ain’t Bangla otherwise.”

  “Okay, but I can’t tell him you’re sorry.”

  I looked at Broomhead and he’d started shaking his head too. “No way.”

  “You mustn’t apologise to him, Rod,” concurred Oscar, “just let things take their natural course.” I always had the feeling that Oscar was a bit of a hippy, deep down.

  Siobahn wasn’t there when we got to the Duke of Hamilton. The landlord came over to serve us. He looked us up and down as if we were riff-raff, but the truth was that we were probably the smartest dressed geezers in there. There was something I didn’t like about him but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. He was a big lad of about forty-five, but looked soft with it, beneath his surly manner. He wore glasses and a mop of curly brown hair, and carried a beer gut like a bag of shopping.

  “Four lagers,” I demanded, deliberately brusquely.

  He said nothing, just sniffed, and then brought them over one at a time. I could see him being next for the tongue treatment unless I could think of something more original.

  “Is Siobahn not on?” I asked him.

  “No.” He put a pint down in front of Oscar.

  “She on later?” I pursued.

  “No.” He put the second pint down in front of Broomhead.

  “She on tomorrow then?”

  “No.” He ambled off to pull another beer.

  I sighed and turned to Frank. “You know what, Frank?” I said, under my breath, “This geezer’s really starting to piss me off.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Frank, “but just take it easy.”

  The landlord came back and put the third pint down in front of Frank. “She’s gone,” he said, without looking at me.

  “Gone? As in…?”

  “As in gone,” he said, helpfully, then he smiled a gap-toothed pitiless smile. “Sacked her.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Broomhead.

  He slid my glass across the bar towards me, and leaning over, smirked right in my face. He snatched the ten pound note from between my fingers whilst his eyes were still fixed on mine. “Fraternising with the punters,” he replied.

  Chapter Eight

  Travers Road

  “The ball’s played up to the half way line. Smith collects and moves forward along that right wing. Well, really! How much space are they going to allow him? He goes past one defender, then another, and whips the cross in, and… Yes! Peddle! Peddle with a diving header from all of twelve yards out. Are they back in this match with only fourteen minutes left on the clock? Mark?”

  “Well, yes, Alan, we thought it was all over at half time. You know, with United three goals to the good and, quite literally, tearing them to shreds. It was one of the most one-sided halves of football that I can remember but now with this man Peddle, it may not be as cut and dried as we thought.”

  “Yes, he’s been a great find, hasn’t he, Mark; this sprightly number nine, Rodney Peddle?”

  “Unbelievable, Alan, unbelievable. What a prospect.”

  “The find of the season, surely. And, they’re on the attack again. They surge forward looking for the goal that would take them within striking distance of United’s once unassailable lead. And, oh my! Oh, my word! What a shocking tackle!”

  “Crazy, Alan, absolutely crazy.”

  “Two yards outside the United penalty area, Peddle gets to his feet after being clattered to the ground by the full-back, Jones. He dusts himself down and smiles at his…”

  “Assailant, Alan?”

  “Well, I think assailant’s as good a word as any under the circumstances, Mark. Peddle places the ball as United’s defenders form a wall.”

  “I think he’ll try one from here. He’ll have a pop, Alan.”

  “Well, he’s the man with the golden
boots at the moment, so why not. And the thing that astounds me, Mark, is that there was no booking. For once, there was no card brandished at Jones.”

  “Well, he’s already on a yellow, Alan.”

  “And you think that’s why the referee spared us another card?”

  “Well, of course, another booking would mean that Jones would have to walk, and this is the Cup Final, after all. No one wants to see a sending off in the Cup Final. Cast your mind back to Kevin Moran in 1985.”

  “But, by the rules of the game, Mark, shouldn’t Jones have gone?”

  “Well, I’d rather reserve judgement on that, Alan, the lad is a friend of mine, and…”

  “Enough said, Mark. Of course, I believe you were at Wrexham together?”

  “For a short while, Alan. He was an up and coming kid and I was on my last legs. But, the boy’s made it big, and deservedly so; he’s a great talent, and good luck to him.”

  “If a little cumbersome in the challenge, shall we say? Should Jones still be taking part in this match? Personally, I think not. Anyway, Peddle steps up and unleashes the free kick, and delivers…oh, my word …the perfect free kick! He curls it into the top right hand corner of the net and Johannsen in the United goal is left gobsmacked.”

  “Unbelievable, Alan, absolutely unbelievable.”

  “And United’s lead has been whittled down to just the solitary goal; it’s three-two, and we have a game on our hands now.”

  “We certainly do, Alan.”

  The roar of the crowd was practically taking my head off my shoulders. I’d never known anything like it. I could feel the blood coursing through my arteries and my heart was pounding in my chest. I tried to distance myself from it all and focus. The eighty thousand spectators became a mass of colour and noise flickering on the periphery of my consciousness. The smell of grass and liniment was almost tangible, and the aching of my muscles felt debilitating. It was as though my body was floating on a sea of pure adrenaline.

  Then, I was taken from behind again.

  “If I can put you on the spot, Mark, can you pick a winner from this? United are, obviously, by far the better team on paper. I mean, look at them, sprinkled with internationals from every corner of the globe, but the underdogs seem to have the bit between their teeth and the momentum definitely seems to be with them. I mean, can you pick a winner from these two teams?”