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

by Paul Harris

  I wandered amidst the city that I’d grown to love like an older brother. Whilst some feared it’s power to subvert and distract and others were indifferent, I was intimate. We explored each other, discovering new experiences; we understood one another, perfectly.

  I walked through Admiralty Arch. The wind struck fiercely at the flags above, threatening to tear them from their poles. It struck me too, slowing my gentle stroll into an uneven stumble, and making a sail of my Harrington jacket. It raised the day’s newsprint into the air along Northumberland Avenue and rattled the cages of slumbering shops. It ripped litter from bins and sent it spiralling and eddying across the street into shop doorways where it collapsed and died on top of teenage tramps and dog excrement. Something stirred ahead of me. A face popped out from the end of a sleeping bag, a startled look which transformed to a spooky smile as she regained her composure.

  “Change mate? For a cup of tea in the morning?”

  “Tea?” I queried.

  “Well, you know.” She looked embarrassed.

  “How old are you?”

  “Old enough.”

  I took a sealed packet of cigarettes from my jacket pocket, opened it, and gave her half of them. She nodded her gratitude. I pulled my collar up and bid her good luck.

  “A light?” she asked meekly.

  I took two more cigarettes from the box and attempted to light both of them. The wind snuffed out the flame time and time again. We both laughed. She had a pleasant face, young and bright and vaguely pretty, not the care-worn face of poverty. I tossed her the lighter. “Keep it. You try.”

  “Cheers, mate.”

  “I always carry two,” I informed her, “it’s not a problem.”

  It was a tragically enduring scene, from Dickens through to Thatcher and beyond. I hoped that she’d be on the train back to Harrogate or to wherever she was from before the city beat the life out of her.

  It was like being on a storm ravaged sailing vessel down by the river. Spray was lifting off the Thames in a way that I’d never seen before. I was slammed against the wall of Embankment Station and the unlit cigarette dropped from my mouth. The streets were still and empty except for the occasional hatchback speeding along Victoria Embankment, going somewhere in a serious hurry; going somewhere on a vital mission; but, where?

  I climbed the iron grid steps of the footbridge, watching them shake grimly as I stamped hard and spitefully. The Queen Mary bobbed cheerlessly in the gloom and shrugged her detachment from it all. I shrugged back at her.

  I stood on the edge; the very edge. I looked into the black water as it lay cursed by the night. It’s cold breath scorched my face. The iron railings stabbed my ribs as I leant on them, and the ledge upon which I stood numbed my toes. I shivered and tried to light another cigarette. I took off my jacket and hurled it into the darkness. I didn’t hear it make a splash. I shivered some more.

  There stood a door, ajar, into another world. The deep unknown beckoned. I climbed the railing and sat, swaying in the wind.

  Those people sleeping in shop doorways, amongst the filth and litter, hungry and cold in grubby sleeping bags and blankets; why aren’t they floating face down in the river? Why do they persevere? Why do they endure it all?

  So long as there is hope of better things to come; hope of reparation; hope of becoming the man you once thought you would be…

  The daylight caught me by surprise. It sprang up while I was standing at the window thinking of her. I looked at the clock; it had gone six. She would never come now. I would never see her again. She was dead now. I had finally killed her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  East of Tywardreath

  On the road just East of Tywardreath, the four-by-four Land Rover Discovery, a safari beige kind of a colour, slipped out of gear and coasted down the hill. Although only a little over a year old, it rattled with wear and tear. It lolled this way and that in the style of a hardened workhorse. It reached the nadir and splashed through the stream that had encroached onto the road. The engine revved in preparation for the ascent up the other side of the valley.

  The rain came harder; battered the roof; rolled across the windscreen; dripped inside through the faulty rubber window seal. It came on harder still, and brought visibility down to a minimum. Three figures, wringing wet, and sad, pushed on against the gradient of the hill and against the brutality of the weather. Blue knuckles were wrapped around cold handlebars. They were cold, thirsty, hungry, and sad. They were on their worst ever holiday.

  The driver of the Land Rover turned up his heater, patted his plastic lunchbox with great affection, and bawled at them, “Get off the road!” in the kind of rustic accent that belches manure, scarecrows, scrumpy, and big red noses at you. He turned up the radio and began tapping along to a tune on his steering wheel. He looked in the rear view mirror at the reflection of the three young men. They were strangers; they deserved what they got; pneumonia, no doubt. He glimpsed the Border Collie that was reclining, contentedly, amongst the debris in the rear of the vehicle. He smiled at his dog. They were happy.

  You run away from one thing right back to the thing you were running away from in the first place. I found myself, more and more frequently, solitarily haunting the pubs of South London; revisiting my former stamping grounds. I recognised the odd face and maybe they recognised me but no one ever acknowledged me. Everywhere I went, the bar staff had changed; and got less friendly, I’d say. All of the people that I had once wiled away those drunken hours with, had gone; moved on, got married, got divorced, or died.

  One day, I was sitting in the Malt Shovel, quietly minding my own business, and reading a newspaper, when a storm erupted at the entrance, and I heard a familiar bark. “Where’s me beer?” someone yelled, and then loudly burped. I rustled my paper, raising it level with my eyes, and hid. But the speed of my movement drew his attention.

  “Alright?” he asked.

  I grunted a vague response, and lifted the paper higher.

  “One eighty-two,” the barmaid said to him.

  “Who’s that?” I heard him say, and imagined him gesturing over towards me.

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  I wasn’t sure why I was so nervous about Bird recognising me. It was what I was looking for, a link to the past; it was why I was here. I was trembling with trepidation as I heard him shuffling towards me. I clutched the newspaper at its edges, screwed it into a ball, and threw it at the lumbering drunkard.

  “Hiya, Bird!” I grinned, “How’s it going, Bruce?”

  He took an uncertain step backwards with confusion, almost shock, on his face. “Bloody hell! Look who the cat dragged in! It’s Rod! Another pint, Sylvia! A bottle of whisky! A million bottles! How you doing, mate?”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay? Just okay? That’s not good enough. Why can’t you tell me you’re doing great?”

  I shrugged. I felt as cheerful as I had for some time. “I’m okay.”

  “So, what’s been happening?” he asked.

  “Not much really.”

  “What you doing here? Still married to that bird? Kids?”

  “Slow down!” I protested.

  He plonked the pint glasses down and sat opposite me. “Yeah, plenty of time.”

  I nodded and took a sip. “Let me buy you dinner, and we’ll talk.”

  “Later; let’s have a drink first.” He ordered a couple of large brandies. “So, what brings you back round here?”

  “I like it here; I always did; it’s my spiritual home.” I downed my brandy in one. It burnt the back of my throat, but it felt good.

  “Reading between the lines, I’d say the marriage went tits up.”

  “Yep.”

  “Don’t like to say it, but…”

  “Yeah,” I interrupted, “you told me so. You were right and I was wrong; I’m always wrong.”

  “Any kids?” He stared into my eyes and I stared back into his for a moment.

  “I don’t want to talk
about it.”

  He nodded a solemn acquiescence, sipped his brandy, and pulled his stool a little nearer to me. “You’re not at ease at all, are you? Call me psychic if you will, but I sense that you’re carrying a burden.” He waved his hand mysteriously in front of my face and I pushed it away scornfully. “Yes, a great unhappiness,” he confirmed.

  “I’ll get more brandy.”

  He pushed me back into my seat. “You can’t keep running, Rod. You need to get it off your chest. Is the thing with Marilyn still wounding?”

  “It’s not just her, it’s other people too; it’s everything.” I bit my lip and tried to contain my emotions. “Most of all,” I whispered, between deep breaths, “I miss my baby. I feel lost; I need to get away.”

  “You can stay at mine, if that’s any good.”

  “Is there room?”

  “Always! For you, always.”

  “Deal!” I smiled, with genuine relief, and shook his hand. “Thanks, Bird.”

  “Don’t thank me, there’s really no need; just reintroduce me to Mister Hennessy.”

  I splashed out on a bottle, and the three of us huddled, merrily, together in a corner. It was cold outside. You’re allowed to drink spirits when it’s cold outside; it’s good for you; it helps the circulation.

  “Heard from Sol?” asked Bird.

  “Sol?” I shook my head. “No, not me, never.”

  He smiled smugly and jabbed a finger into his chest. “I have though.”

  “Yeah?” I exclaimed, with no small show of surprise, “And, what’s the news? How’s he doing? Has he come back?”

  “Just like you, by all accounts; separated; desolate. Exactly like you,” he laughed, “suicidal!”

  I eyed him sceptically, struggling to see the humour in his revelation. “That’s bad. Where is he now? Home yet?”

  “No, I don’t think so; I don’t know where the idiot is.”

  We drank some more, in silence, as if in tribute, to Sol’s late misfortunes. Eventually, Bird leaned over the table and beckoned me toward him as if he was going to impart a weighty secret. “Shall we find him?” he said.

  There was another long pause whilst I attempted to make sense of his proposal. “How do you mean?”

  “Shall we find him; me and you?” He sprang to his feet with excitement. “A great adventure! Yeah, that’s what we’ll do.”

  “How we going to do that?” I countered, tempering his wild enthusiasm, “We’re not the Famous Five!”

  “Oh, come on! What are you doing with your life right now? What have you got going for you?”

  He had a point; although he didn’t need to be so brutal about it; but I declined to answer, nonetheless.

  He took it upon himself to answer for me. “I’ll tell you what: nothing, that’s what! I got money. Why don’t we just take off and go and fetch him? We can rescue him, eh?”

  “Sit down!” I demanded, “You’re making me giddy. It’s just a drunken romantic notion, that’s all.”

  “Come on!” he yelled, submitting to my request to sit down, “Where’ve your balls gone?”

  “We have no idea where he is.”

  He grinned. “You just leave that to me, my boy. You up for it, or what?”

  “Maybe,” I shrugged, “In theory, perhaps.”

  “Ha! Wunderbar! Let’s drink to it.”

  It was even colder when we left, but we didn’t feel it; we didn’t feel a thing. We were drunk on the excitement that we thought was unfolding before us, not to mention the contents of the Hennessy bottle which was now standing, empty, on the bar of the Malt Shovel.

  The footpath was slippery and the air was crisp and sharp in my lungs. It advised that Christmas was approaching and that another year of my life had been expended; had disappeared; had dissolved in a rushing, swirling haze of disappointment. We walked for half an hour and didn’t speak another word until we reached Bird’s house. We passed the heath and it hardly breathed; just lay grim and dark, still and dead, so dead. The single bark of a fox bounced amongst the stolid oaks and was followed by stillness. A car sailed past and I recalled, with pain, the one that had shadowed me home some years previously. I remembered the men climbing out of it and beating the living daylights out of me; quite literally beating me to within an inch of my life; the beginning of the nightmare. Tonight, this night, was the end of the nightmare; I knew it without a shadow of doubt.

  I spent the night at Bird’s house, in the box room that he had already prepared for just such a contingency.

  “Is this going to be my room?” I asked him.

  “Will it do?”

  It wasn’t as good as being at the flat, but that had become like a prison to me now and, besides, I’d stayed in worse places. We agreed a price and, as we were both already hammered, went straight to bed.

  I phoned in sick the next day and got a taxi back to the flat to fetch my stuff. It no longer felt like home and I was glad to be leaving. I shoved my meagre possessions into a couple of sports bags and slung them over my shoulders. I paused on the way out and peered, thoughtfully, at the small pine table beneath the coat hook. I took an envelope from it, rolled it up, and jammed it into my jacket pocket. It contained a hundred pounds that I’d left for Rory, to bring the rent up to date, in a rare moment of rectitude. I wouldn’t be seeing him again, and he’d never trace me on the other side of the river.

  On the way to the North Circular, our route took us past the Red Cow and the Duke of Hamilton. I bid them both a fond farewell and good riddance. Happy memories played upon my conscience, but only fleetingly, before turning sour, and helping to propel me on to a new future.

  When I got back to Bird’s, his existing lodger was just in from work and was sitting on the settee, biting great lumps off a leg of greasy fried chicken and tossing chunks of gristle through the grill of the gas fire that glowed orange in the hearth. Bird introduced us; his name was Amos; he was tall and thin, freckle-faced, and had boils on his neck and his chin. He greeted me, unintelligibly, through a mouthful of crunchy yellow skin. We shook hands, warmly, and then I wiped the chicken fat on my jeans. On first impressions, Amos seemed a good sort, and Bird confirmed it when he went off to the kitchen for some cans and another drumstick, leaving us alone to talk about him.

  Later, they insisted on taking a bag each and followed me up the stairs to the little box room that was now my home. They helped me unpack, and it took all of three and a half minutes.

  “I can’t believe you’ve still got this,” remarked Bird, rifling through one of the bags.

  He was referring to the old copy of the NME that I still had. It was now yellow throughout, torn, and dog-eared, and smelled musty. “It’s an heirloom,” I insisted.

  He laughed. “It’s a fire hazard. I’ll give you a quid and you can go get yourself a new one.”

  “It wouldn’t be the same,” I explained, “Things will never be the same as that.” I took it from him but, as I gently placed it on the bed, Amos’s jaw dropped. He leapt on it and started thumbing through the pages.

  “How cool is this!” he exclaimed, excitedly, and started reading names of bands and names of records out at the top of his voice with great nostalgia, intimacy and passion.

  “See?” I said to Bird, with an air of triumph, and knew then that Amos and I would be just fine.

  “Rod’s up for the trip,” said Bird to Amos as we headed back downstairs. I looked at him with surprise. I was under the impression that it was a totally new plan that we’d only just hatched; just me and Bird; and only tentatively and drunkenly at that.

  “Yeah?” said Amos, looking at me, enquiringly, “Nice one.”

  “I’ll get some more tinnies,” said Bird, departing for the kitchen.

  “When were you thinking of embarking on this expedition?” I asked Amos.

  He held up one of his long bony hands to stop me and picked up another chicken leg. His free hand remained raised as if to say, “Let me finish my chicken and then I shall furnish you
with a reply.” He swallowed. “Summer,” then gulped, “In the summer. Want a leg?”

  I declined his offer. “By train?” I asked, and then a thought struck me, “We could hire a car; I don’t mind driving.”

  Amos shook his head. “Nah.”

  “Oh?”

  “Nah,” and he followed Bird into the kitchen to fetch more chicken.

  That week at work was good; I felt liberated, and it didn’t go unnoticed. I got on much better with the other boys. They said I was like a new man; and I felt like a new man; I felt reborn. My attention was firmly focused on the future instead of the past. The clouds were parting and, at last, there was a glimmer of sunlight on the horizon. A bright warm feeling was upon me. Although the journey north every day was horrendous, the job was coming to an end anyway and I’d soon be moving on.

  A long standing tradition was born that first week. We met up on Friday, straight after work; me, Amos, and Bird; in the Volunteer, next to the station. We got a takeaway on the way home (Amos always got fried chicken), and we started the weekend as we meant to go on. I was always the first there, from that initial meeting to the very last; my hours of engagement were far more sociable than theirs, but not nearly as lucrative. I sat and waited, played the fruit machines, fed the jukebox, tried not to drink too quickly, and wondered what time they would show up.

  I knew this pub from old. I’d wiled away many bleary eyed and dewy eyed hours in here. I’d stood at the bar amid raucous laughter and had sulked miserably in corners. But, alas, it was no longer the same place. The dim, dull wallpaper had gone and, with it, the yellow hue that had once descended from the ceiling. It had been replaced by framed mock advertising posters from the nineteen-fifties; Brasso and Marlboro, and Cadbury’s chocolate. The new mahogany fittings had been French polished until they dazzled and distracted. The threadbare, mildewed carpet of old had been replaced by wooden floorboards, honed in a workshop until they had the genuine appearance of genuine junk. The cigarette burns of three generations were gone; socially historic graffiti, desecrated; the comforting odour of stale beer, cleansed and eradicated. This was false, fake, and sanitised; this was the future.