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

by Paul Harris

  “Well, you’ve put me on the fence now, Alan. Isn’t the globe round? Does it have corners?”

  “As we speak, there’s a scramble in the… It’s there! I was going to say that there’s a scramble in the United six yard box and that goalmouth scramble has resulted in the equaliser, and this fine old stadium is rocking. We really do have a game on our hands now. I think it was…”

  “It’s Peddle again, Alan.”

  “It’s that man, Peddle, again! His third goal of the afternoon; and what a find this lad’s proving to be.”

  “Unbelievable, Alan, absolutely unbelievable.”

  “Now can you pick a winner? Who could pick a winner?”

  “As you say, Alan, they definitely have the momentum behind them and I actually think that they’re looking good for the win.”

  “Extra time, perhaps?”

  “Very possibly.”

  “And this could, very well, be the upset of the decade; the century even.”

  “The millennium, Alan?”

  “Yes, the upset of the millennium!”

  The sweat was pouring off me by the bucket load. I was drenched with it. My shirt was clinging to me. I was beginning to feel nauseas. The roar of the crowd had become unbearable. My head was spinning. I wanted it to end.

  “And it looks as if there will be extra time, after all. The referee, Mister Cornstarch from Rowley Regis, checks his watch and raises the whistle to his lips. Smith traps a long ball just inside the United half.”

  “Excellent control, Alan.”

  “He skips along the by line. The United defence seem to have gone to sleep. They are, quite honestly, a disgrace. These are some of the same players who represented England in their recent victory in Reykjavik, and, quite honestly, Mark, they’re defending like a pack of penguins today; especially in the second half.”

  “Well, I think that’s a little unfair to penguins, Alan. Penguins waddle about in a far smarter fashion than this. The United defence is an absolute shambles at the moment.”

  “Smith’s got the ball up by the corner flag.”

  “Is it a pack of penguins or a flock, Alan?”

  “Smith’s still juggling with the ball near to the corner flag. He’ll probably try to see out the ninety minutes there because he and his team mates are looking fresh and dynamic and must fancy themselves in extra time.”

  “Yes, Alan, if he’s got any sense, the lad’ll just keep it up there until the referee blows his whistle.”

  “Smith loops a cross in, over his head, to the far post. Superb! And, Peddle connects! Four-three! Rodney Peddle with what, surely, must be the winner. The crowd is going wild. Peddle is mobbed by his team mates. There’ll be just enough time for United to kick-off again. And that’s it! Mister Cornstarch blows! It’s all over! An unbelievable victory; an unbelievable come-back; and an unbelievable FA Cup Final upset! Mark?”

  “Unbelievable, Alan, absolutely unbelievable.”

  The boiler was roaring and clattering as if it was going to bring the whole row of maisonettes down. The flat felt like a sauna; there was condensation dribbling down the bedroom walls. I roused myself, wiped the sleep from my eyes, and swung around to prop myself up on the edge of the bed. The bed clothes were soaked through.

  I was disappointed that I’d woken up so abruptly, but I’d been gasping for air as I climbed the steep steps up to the royal box. I had so much wanted to lift the Cup above my head, and brandish it to the adoring masses in the grandstands. That would show Broomhead and Frank and Bangla and all the other soccer boys, I thought. Rodney doesn’t know anything about football, eh? Four goals in the Cup Final! They could kiss my ass!

  I lunged, awkwardly, in the general direction of the kitchen, and turned the central heating off, leaving a trail of sweaty footprints on the floor behind me. I filled the kettle from the cold water tap, plugged it into the wall socket, and poured my last sachet of Lemsip into a chipped white mug that I’d pinched from a site canteen. I looked through the window into the street. There was frost on the parked cars outside but the sky was clear and the sun was out. “Enough blue to make a sailor’s suit,” I muttered to myself, and smiled, quite merrily, despite my aching sinuses.

  I went back into the bedroom and bundled up my quilt and sheet, and threw them into a corner to air. I was feeling the mattress to see how damp that was, when the kettle began to whistle. As I shuffled back to the kitchen, someone rang my door bell.

  “Oh!” I said as I opened the door, unable to hide my surprise, and still feeling a little sick.

  “You seem surprised,” said Muffin, smiling gaily, “were you expecting someone else?”

  “I wasn’t expecting anybody at all, really. Although, the rent’s due so it could have been Rory, I suppose.”

  “Well, it’s your lucky day because it’s me!” She thrust her arms up into the air as if she’d just emerged from one of those big cardboard birthday cakes. “Tell you what, let’s try again.” Then, she pulled the door shut and rang once more.

  I opened it. “Hiya, Muffin!” I said, smiling more pleasantly this time.

  “Hiya, Rod, can I come in?”

  “I suppose you’re on a mission?” I asked, showing her into the lounge.

  “Could say that. Is that your kettle boiling or have you bought yourself a canary? Are you that short of company these days?”

  I ignored the allusion to Moke’s absence. “Tea?”

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  “I’m having Lemsip, and it’s the last one.”

  “Oh, you poor dear,” she mocked, unsympathetically, “Coffee, then; if that’s alright.”

  I went to the kitchen and unplugged the kettle, and then had a poke around in the cupboard to see if I had any chocolate digestives to offer her. I hadn’t; and, in fact, I hadn’t got anything at all in the cupboard apart from half a jar of coffee and a tin of macaroni cheese. I made a mental note to drop into Sainsbury’s on my way back from the pub later.

  I took her coffee in to her and then apologised. “Sorry, I’ll just get some clothes on. I didn’t realise I was still in my boxers. It was so hot in the night.” But, she followed me into the bedroom.

  “Don’t bother,” she giggled, “you look fine as you are,” and she grabbed my boxer shorts.

  “What you doing?” I yelped.

  “Why are all the bed clothes on the floor? Wild night? Come on, Rod, think about it.”

  “No, no wild nights. Think about what?”

  “Poor old Moke, of course.” She pulled the front of my shorts down and I sprang out towards her. She caught it between her fingers and licked her lips. Resisting all the forces of nature, I pulled away from her and hastily slithered into a pair of jogging bottoms. She sat on the edge of the bed, raising her legs, and allowing her short red skirt to ride up across her thighs.

  “Your coffee will be going cold,” I said, peering out of the window as if distracted by something in the street. “Is that your car out there?”

  “The orange Sierra? Yeah, why?”

  “No reason,” I replied, whilst trying to think of what else I could say. “Is it Humdrum’s or yours?”

  “His. Why are you asking me all this stuff? Why don’t you come over here?”

  “He lets you drive it, then?”

  “No, I don’t drive. What are you talking about? You know your mattress is soaking wet?”

  “He’s not sitting out there, is he? While we’re in here doing this?”

  “We’re not doing bloody anything!” She crossed her legs and folded her arms as if to demonstrate her frustration. “He’s waiting for me.”

  “Why doesn’t he come in?”

  “Don’t be silly!” she snapped, “You know three’s a crowd.”

  I wandered back to the kitchen to fetch my Lemsip, and found that it had gone cold. Muffin followed me and started running her fingers down my back inside my t-shirt.

  “What you going to do about Moke, Rod?”

  I shook
my head as I quivered at her touch. “Nothing.”

  “Oh, come on, Rod! I’m sick to death of playing the agony aunt, and so’s Humdrum. She just mopes about our gaff morning, noon, and night.”

  “Is that why he sent you up here? What’s going on? You people are sick!”

  She snatched her hands away from me and stepped back. “Thanks for the coffee!” she sneered, but, in truth, she didn’t sound grateful at all. She, quite furiously, turned on her heels, tripped over my vacuum cleaner, and left.

  “Don’t slam the door!” I called after her, as she slammed the front door shut.

  I turned on the television and saw Moira Stewart and an underground Icelandic ice cap. The ice cap was melting and there were fears that Reykjavik would be submerged. Moira appeared to be extremely concerned and, as she spoke, she glowered at me as if it were all my fault. I turned her off and walked down to the corner shop for some cigarettes and more Lemsip.

  I loved those Sunday mornings in the newsagent’s. I would loiter there for ages, most weeks, reading the headlines, and smirking to myself. This week’s favourite, and by some distance, was the Sunday Sport (a regular winner of this accolade), whose front page proudly declared: “Vinny Jones Ate My Testicles”. Show me another newspaper that can compete with class like that.

  “Twenty Benson and Hedges, please.”

  “You buy paper?”

  “Nah, they’re full of shit.”

  “Well, don’t read here. This no library.” He gave me my change with a meaningful glare.

  I left the shop, lit a cigarette, and went for a walk; a long, long walk. I walked up the hill to Hampstead. If someone had asked me to do it, I’d have told them where to go. It was a nice day, bright and crisp, but with a slight chill still in the air that stung my nostrils as I breathed it into my aching lungs. I walked around the edge of the Heath and dropped down onto the High Street beneath the shadow of leafy suburban wealth. The traffic seemed, somehow, out of place and soiled this otherwise genteel scene, like Russian tanks on a Czechoslovakian hillside. I squeezed in a pint at the Three Horseshoes and, afterwards, ascended Church Row to Hugh Gaitskell’s grave. Sometimes I visited the painters, and sometimes I visited the writers, but today I wanted to visit old Hugh. I circled his plot, with my hands in my pockets, wondering whether it really was the KGB who had topped him.

  I climbed onto a neighbouring tombstone and skinned up. The sun broke through the branches of trees above, in bright shards of light, casting peculiar shadows on the weather-beaten gravestones. The sodden earth smelled fresh and full of life and mystery. The birds tweeted to one another overhead in a cheerful chorus that seemed designed to announce the onset of spring. I heard a twig snap behind me, as if underfoot. There was a rustling in the undergrowth. I turned to look but although there was movement amongst the dark shadows, I could discern no intrusion on my covert retreat. I gazed on and, eventually, a squirrel bounded between two trees. It shuddered to a halt before reaching its destination, as if startled at being caught in my gaze. As our eyes met, the squirrel seemed self-conscious, as if he were the trespasser and not I. He leapt for the cover of a tree and raced up it to leafier pursuits.

  I sat and smoked, and thought about this glorious life of mine. The smoke made me feel sick and so did my life. Disappointment and disillusion sat heavy upon my heart. The rush and the melee and the boredom and, most of all, total dissatisfaction weighed me down so much that I could barely breath sometimes; nor even wanted to. Yet, the dead lay all about me, quiet and still and, hopefully, at peace.

  This was my favourite spot in the world, the place that I was drawn to, and the place where I wanted to be; but this corner of tranquillity was a poor fit for me at that moment in time; I just hadn’t earned the right to it yet. I walked back down the hill, this time past the old psychiatric hospital, to the High Street and caught the bus to the Red Cow and more despair.

  Broomhead was standing at the bar on his own when I got there. “Late, aren’t you?” he said, not even attempting to disguise the melancholy tones in his voice. The rest of them were at the top around the pool tables, but I already knew that because I’d heard them from the bus stop fifty yards down the road.

  “What’s up?” I asked, patting him on the back in a gesture of bonhomie.

  He flinched, uncharacteristically at my touch, which, in turn, gave me a start. “Ah, nothing,” he said, “Nothing.”

  “What you doing down here all on your own?”

  He shook his head. “Not really in the mood, Rod. Yourself?”

  “Don’t care really. I’ll keep you company if you like.”

  “Whatever,” he shrugged, “Pint, is it?”

  “What is up with you?”

  He ordered me a drink, and shrugged. “Life,” he said glumly.

  “Oh, yeah,” I empathised, “this glorious life.”

  “Nothing’s ever straight forward, is it?”

  “No, it certainly isn’t.”

  “Everything’s always fucked up.”

  “Yes, it certainly is.”

  He downed the remaining half of his pint and moved on to a whisky chaser. “I thought I was in the doldrums,” I smiled, “but you’re in worse shape than me; and I’ve been hanging around the cemetery gates all morning, waiting for someone to come and throw me in a hole.” I laughed, insincerely, in an attempt to raise his spirits, but he just wasn’t having it at all.

  “What you got to worry about?”

  I sighed, dramatically. “Everything.”

  “And nothing!” he snapped back, ordering another double Scotch. I’d barely had a sip of my lager.

  “Muffin came around my place earlier.”

  “Yeah, I know. I saw Humdrum waiting outside in the motor. What she want?”

  “She came on Moke’s behalf; same old shit; but…you know; it was weird.” Broomhead sighed, gazed at the empty tumbler between his fingers, and snorted, derisively; but he denied me a response. “Really weird, you know,” I prompted, once more. He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. I raised one back at him but, still, he exhibited no curiosity whatsoever. “She really came on strong,” I continued, nodding meaningfully in the direction of my crotch. “Really, really strong!”

  “So?”

  “Humdrum was waiting outside!”

  “See, you really don’t know them! As far as that pair of slags is concerned, do yourself a favour and keep well away. They’re trouble!”

  “I know.”

  Suddenly, he turned on me, with what looked like a blind fury in his eyes, and started prodding me in the chest. “No, you don’t know! You think you know but you don’t know!” He paused as if searching for the words that would constitute an explanation of his outburst, but gave up. “I know! I do know! That’s all!” and he slammed his glass down on the bar.

  I wasn’t sure how to respond and wasn’t convinced that I should anyway, so I called the barman over.

  “Liam! Two more double Bells, please.” He glanced at me, with undisguised contempt, as he reached for the optics. “That’s another one who’s going to get a slap,” I whispered to Broomhead, who had eased to a gentle simmer beside me.

  “Who?” Broomhead whispered back.

  “This Irish prick. Thank you, Liam,” and I paid him with a sneer.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Liam!” Broomhead called him back, and he came, swaggering and puckering his lips.

  “Ice, ladies” he asked, condescendingly, “A slice of lemon, perhaps?”

  “Here.” Broomhead beckoned him closer then yanked him by his brewery tie and dragged him across the bar. “You got a problem with us?” growled Broomhead, menacingly, into his ear.

  “No!” choked Liam, gasping for air, struggling to breathe, and turning a quite beautiful shade of burgundy.

  “Oh, that’s okay then,” said Broomhead softly, smiling sarcastically through gritted teeth. He let go of him and Liam ambled, meekly, off to the kitchen where he remained for the rest of his shift. I never saw hi
m swagger again and he never took the piss again; not ever.

  I was dumbstruck, and stared at Broomhead, open-mouthed. “Are you sure there isn’t something you want to talk about?” I asked him.

  “Not with you, no!”

  I stepped back and glared at him. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

  “What?” The pitch of his voice was climbing again. “Because of that?” he gestured, nonchalantly, towards the direction in which Liam had retreated.

  “It’s not like you, that’s all. Me, yes, but not you. I know he had it coming, but it’s just not like you to give it.”

  “Well, it’s just this; I’m not little Bobby anymore; court jester, chief clown, the whipping boy; I can dish it out too, you know, when I want to. And, that’s just what I’m going to do from now on.” With his declaration of intent clearly delivered, he turned and marched out of the pub, kicking a bar stool over on his way, as if to emphasise his change of policy.

  I was still staring after Broomhead, in amazement, when a familiar and pretty face appeared at the door several minutes later. Siobahn came lurching towards me. “I thought I’d find you in here,” she said, “Where’s your friend?”

  “He just left; you must have missed him by only seconds.”

  “Shame,” she mused.

  “I’m not sure about that, to be honest; he’s in a peculiar frame of mind today.”

  “Problems at home? Boyfriend problems?” she asked.

  I gave her a sideways glance and narrowed my eyes in confusion for a moment; and then realised what she was talking about. “He’s not really gay; it was only a joke.”

  “What’s funny about it?”

  “Nothing, I suppose, out of context, but at the time, under the circumstances…”

  “Are you homophobic as well?” she interrupted.

  “No!” I protested and then thought about the rest of the question, “As well as what?” I was shaking my head, and she was looking back at me, and shaking hers. “Look, sometimes you make a spur of the moment remark; maybe not as humorous as you initially thought, and perhaps a little ill-conceived, but, just a remark; and the next thing…” She was still shaking her head. “It was just a joke,” I reassured her. “As well as what, anyway?”