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

by Paul Harris

  “Hello, Rod,” he said, blankly, “what do you want?”

  “I was in the area and I just called to say hello.”

  “Hello.”

  I couldn’t help feeling disappointed by Frank’s indifference but I ploughed on regardless. “Fancy a pint?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Oh, right.” I didn’t really know what else to say. “Okay, bye then.”

  Frank hung up without saying goodbye. I gently replace the receiver and turned around, with a strong sense of something that was making me feel nauseas; I wasn’t sure whether it was a sense of betrayal or one of envy. Bangla was crawling around on the floor, collecting shards of glass and depositing them in the open palm of his right hand. Bird was supervising the operation, still shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Is that all of it, Aussie man? Can you see anymore? Hey, Aussie man? Aussie man? Birdman of Alcatraz?”

  “No, that’s all,” muttered Bird.

  “Sure?”

  “That’s it, honest; you can stand up now.”

  Bangla did as he was bid, and then held his open palm outstretched across the bar. “Hey, Liam!” he called. The barman came over. “Glass,” explained Bangla. Liam held out his hand to accept the fragments just as Bangla poured them into the ice bucket.

  “For Christ’s sake!” exclaimed Liam.

  “It weren’t me, man,” protested Bangla, holding his arms apart, like Jesus on the cross.

  At that point, Bird and I left, and got back in the van. Bird was bawling with laughter. “Your mates, eh? Your real mates?”

  “It wasn’t always like this; it’s changed so much.”

  He snorted with derision. “And, who’s this Broomhead character? Where’s he? What sort of name’s that?”

  I crouched behind the steering wheel and dropped my head slowly into my hands, sighing loudly.

  “What?” asked Bird, “Now, what’s up?”

  I turned to him and stared straight into his eyes. He swallowed, stopped laughing, and returned my silence.

  “Things changed!” I yelled at the top of my voice, and stamped my foot down on the clutch pedal.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rue Lamartine

  The following spring, we set off for Dover, armed with a pocket fold-out map of Picardy and a yellowed Gitanes packet with an address in Amiens hurriedly scribbled on it, the origins of which were rather vague to say the least. We swept around the South Circular and we swept down the A2, sweeping into the countryside near to Dartford, and not once did we stop for a toilet break until we reached the Channel port of Dover, where Bird had booked us into a guesthouse for the night; or, so he had said.

  He stopped, suddenly, outside a three storey Victorian townhouse; so suddenly, that Amos almost drove into him; so suddenly, it was as though he hadn’t expected it to be there. He climbed from his scooter, walked the short distance up an intricately tiled path, and knocked on the door. We stayed out on the road while he spoke to the landlady. Amos was squinting at me in the evening sunlight as I gazed over the railings at Bird and his increasingly animated conversation. The woman shut the door.

  “Could do with a lick of paint,” commented Amos, indifferently.

  Bird returned to us, shaking his head, grimly. “No vacancies, the bitch!”

  “I thought you’d booked?”

  He grunted. “Yeah, right, Rod!” He drove off, and we followed close behind, repeating the scenario four more times before we found somewhere to stay.

  Each time, I pressed him: “But, I thought you said you’d booked somewhere?”

  And, each time, he responded with the same grunt; “Yeah, right, Rod!”

  We finally got a room between us at a pub near the railway station. The pub was fine, it served Stella Artois, and had a pool table. But, it was a healthy walk from the town so we saw nothing of Dover except for the inside of the Priory Hotel. I had a foreboding that Bird’s shenanigans regarding the hotel were to set a template for the rest of the trip, and that we may have invested far too much faith in his organisational skills.

  The morning came, as it always does; and this one came up bright and beautiful, with hardly a cloud in the sky. It was the sunlight that woke us as it burst in through the windows and bounced around the polished surfaces of the room. We decided to forego breakfast and, instead, go for a quick spin around the town before going down to the ferry terminal.

  The castle stood, aloof and decrepit, high up on the hill above our heads, standing guard over nothing but wide empty boulevards and bored ice cream vendors, rambling white hills and dirty dual carriageways. We drove down to the sea; the yellow shingle looked like sand from a distance but was disappointingly uninviting on closer inspection. We watched a ferry docking, possibly ours, its great white hull dotted with tiny black squares. I wondered if there were tiny faces peering out of the squares thinking how good it was to be home, or looking forward to an adventure just like ours, or merely dreading the thought of going back to work on Monday.

  Amos sighed and pointed out another boat, slipping from its tether and crawling along the harbour past the lighthouses that stood on the ends of the harbour walls, like candles on a log cake. We trudged through the shingle, the saline wind blowing in our faces, unable to light the cigarette that I held poised between my lips. Small boats and dinghies sprawled untidily along the shore in pathetic mimicry of the splendorous leviathans slumbering nearby.

  We joined the queue for the ferry and stood, stretching our legs, amongst the exhaust fumes which were forming clouds under the pitiless clear blue sky; and, eventually, we boarded.

  We were off at the other end in, what seemed like, an instant; it was like a short sweet stroll through a haze of duty free shops and slot machines, with hardly a chance to stand out on deck to marvel at the huge expanse of open water, and to feel sea sick.

  In many respects, France is equally as scruffy as England, but without, perhaps, quite the level of neglect that we’ve become accustomed to. It hasn’t slipped into the same trough of disrepair and capitulation, despite the best efforts of the Luftwaffe and the RAF.

  The French still drive on the wrong side of the road, weaving in and out of the traffic at a hundred miles an hour, between borderless fields of crisp yellow straw. You turn a corner and you’re suddenly confronted with the rear end of a tractor moving at five miles an hour on a track that’s narrower than the width of the tractor. Not even scooters can get by in single file. Napoleon claimed that the British were a nation of shopkeepers; well, they could do with a few shopkeepers over here, because everybody seems to be out driving bloody tractors.

  They say that travel broadens the mind, and it’s difficult to disagree with that. It makes you realise that our own country has a lot to offer and is, in a grotesque way, quite beautiful. For instance, towns like Rochester and York are up and running with anything the French have to offer. The Houses of Parliament can compete, architecturally, with just about anything in Europe; and yet, we go past that building everyday on the bus or the train without giving it a second glance, then travel halfway across the Continent to visit a toilet like Venice.

  The volume of traffic began to increase as we approached Amiens, where we had, apparently, arranged to spend the evening. We cruised, three abreast, down the Boulevard de Beauville, and over the river. The branches of low hanging trees clipped us as we turned into a car park on the banks of the infamous Somme. Removing my crash helmet was like uncorking a bottle of champagne. The relief was immense; the air beat, refreshingly, at my face; it was mild and fresh with the gentlest of breezes. Dusk was approaching and there was a casual unhurried aspect to the town, reminiscent of one of the smaller English cathedral cities. Middle-aged men sat on the bank of the river drowsily fishing where the trees dipped their leaves into the steady stream of clear fresh water as if to cool them down. It was like gazing in admiration at a huge Seurat in the National Gallery.

  Bird smiled triumphantly. “Nice, eh?”

&nb
sp; “Beautiful,” agreed Amos, “Stunning.”

  I nodded with complete agreement as I scanned the opposite bank. Here was a myriad of brightly coloured canopies, scattered along the north bank. Plastic seats littered the promenade and a whole precinct of bars jostled, neck and neck, cheek to cheek, for attention; for our attention.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” said Amos. Bird and I looked at him in anticipation. “I could murder a cold drink.”

  We marched along the wide road and crossed the bridge, pausing momentarily to gaze along the river and savour the moment as the sun dipped below the horizon, scattering its last handful of rays on paradise. Small boats bobbed on their moorings and the fishermen stowed away their tackle in plastic boxes. “Perhaps, I’ll never go back,” I sighed.

  “I’m down with that,” Bird said dreamily.

  We got three Heinekens and sat outside in the waning day, looking up at the cathedral in awe as it hovered, majestically, over us; a gothic rock amongst the rubble of humanity. We sat in silence for a while in admiration of our surroundings. Then, Amos broke my train of thought. “Nice building.”

  There was a further spell of silence, until, pouring some lager into my glass, I said, “It makes you wonder.”

  There was another long pause and finally Bird responded. “What does?”

  “Well…” I searched for the words. “How the hell did they manage to build things like that back in those days when they can’t even repair the roads properly these days?”

  “What makes me wonder,” said Bird, “is how many lives were lost building the damned thing. How many peasants were crushed under the weight of the taxes that paid for it. And, for what? A spirit in the sky?”

  “Hmmmm,” I mused, “That wasn’t really the angle I was coming from.”

  “Beautiful, though, Bird,” said Amos, half-heartedly, as if anticipating Bird’s wrath, “You’ve got to admit that much.”

  “I wonder how they built that spire on top,” continued Bird, “I wonder why they built that spire on top. Do you think they were trying to reach God?”

  “Maybe,” I replied, beginning to lose interest in the conversation that I’d initiated, “Do you think that’s the idea behind spires and steeples and stuff?”

  Bird snorted contemptuously.

  We watched a small blue Renault parking awkwardly at the foot of the bridge. Two men of about our age climbed out. They spoke loudly and slowly in French as they unlocked the boot of the car and drew two guitar cases from it. They locked the car and crossed the street, walking slowly towards us, laughing with a joy that you wouldn’t find anywhere in London. They were both dressed in denim; jackets and jeans; in the old style; like seventies football hooligans. I guess it’s what passed for being hip in Amiens. One of them nodded a greeting as they ambled past our table and disappeared into the bar next door.

  “Pricks!” spat Bird.

  “What’s the matter with you?” asked Amos with an embarrassed shudder, “We’re on holiday, aren’t we? Be nice.”

  “Happy times are here again,” I sang in a whisper, ruffling Bird’s feathers with a condescending pat on the head.

  Bird sneered at me and went inside to order more beer.

  “What’s up with him?” Amos asked me, “He’s never happy these days.”

  “Must be the male menopause or something; he’s a bit older than us two, isn’t he.”

  Amos smiled but managed to disguise it as a frown just in time for Bird’s return. “Cheers, son,” he said, taking the bottle that was proffered to him; then the smile, mischievously, reappeared.

  “What’s so funny?” Bird demanded to know, “I suppose you’ve been having a good rabbit about me behind my back.”

  “You’re paranoid. Sit down.”

  “So, Rodney’s giving the orders now, eh?”

  “No one’s giving you orders,” I retorted. “Why don’t you just relax?”

  Bird let out a great gush of troubled breath. “You’re right. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He sat down, dropped his head somewhat pensively, and began picking at the label on his lager bottle. “Can’t work it out.”

  “Rod’s got a theory,” said Amos, raising the tempo. I shook my head at him as soon as he opened his mouth, but Bird’s thoughts were far away, and he heard nothing.

  “I wonder what Sol’s doing right now?” I asked, idly, attempting to prompt Bird into some kind of revelation on the address front. It had no effect, and Bird didn’t even stop picking the label off the bottle.

  Someone began strumming an electric guitar in the neighbouring bar. It was the kind of performance you’d expect from a twelve year old in a school music lesson. A girl started singing, with admirable verve and jollity. It was an old Abba song, but had a beat lost somewhere between Boney M and the Wedding Present.

  Amos laughed. “What the hell is that? Jesus!” He stuck his fingers in his ears.

  The racket had raised Bird from his reverie. “I suppose we’d better make a move then,” he said, with uncharacteristic doubt in his voice. “What do you reckon?” We concurred and jumped up out of our seats, leaving the bottles unfinished, and the bill, unwittingly, unpaid; not yet in tune with continental customs.

  We walked up to the cathedral, and past it, into the main square. Children were playing in the fountains, middle-aged tradesmen chatted with spinsters, and winos jostled each other on the public benches. The sun was at its lowest now, and the flagstones of the square were striped with elongated shadows, moving slowly like the hands on the huge cathedral clock. There was a murmur of discord from a small section of drunks as we passed by them. It rumbled on, flourishing into raucous, if incomprehensible, cursing. We stopped to watch them, but they were merely squabbling amongst themselves, as street drunks do, and were oblivious to all else.

  Apart from that, the atmosphere was relaxed and amicable; far too much so for those of us more used to the bustle and one-upmanship of London. People of all types and stations conversed gaily and openly, expressing themselves with broad gestures of arms and shopping bags. They greeted each other with warm smiles and huge displays of affection. The gossip wasn’t of sniping and vindictiveness; they didn’t care about that; they cared about each other.

  “Bonsoir!” sang out an elderly man as he passed us in the opposite direction.

  “Alright,” muttered Amos, unconvincingly, and well out of earshot, in the way that only Londoners exchange greetings.

  “Shall we take a pew for a little while?” asked Bird. We squinted at him. “Maybe not,” he agreed, and we marched on.

  “Look!” cried Amos.

  We looked in the direction he was pointing. “What?” I asked.

  “The Bar Lambretta!”

  We looked again, from the sign above the bar, to Amos’s incredulous face, and back to the sign above the bar. Seconds passed. “Gambetta! It says Gambetta!”

  “Well, what’s a Gambetta then, Smartarse?”

  “I dunno,” I shrugged.

  “Well, let’s go in anyway,” said Bird.

  It was stuffy in the Bar Gambetta. Most of the customers were sitting outside under canopies in the warm evening air. Those that were inside were mainly what might be described as young professionals; City types; dressed in suits with mobile phones placed strategically in front of them and wads of five hundred franc notes hanging from every pocket.

  “Yuk!” said Amos. “Wish I’d never spotted it.”

  “Trois bieres, si’l vous plait,” I coaxed out of my schoolbook French. We stood at the bar and needlessly drank more lager. Amos stared at the bartender with some kind of twisted bitterness. Bird was still sulkily withdrawn for some unapparent reason. Neither of them seemed overly impressed with the Bar Gambetta.

  “We’re not going to find your mate loafing around in here,” said Amos, displaying the first signs of his much renowned haughtiness.

  Bird sighed. “Let’s do it, then!” We followed him out, and across the square. The sun had taken its leave
completely, but it was still light, and the winos were still quarrelling. A gendarme was approaching them, stealthily, like a big ginger tom stalking a flock of blackbirds. Teenagers on bicycles formed figures of eight around bystanders. We walked along the main street. It was alive with activity. The shops had closed for the night and the bars and restaurants were filling up.

  Bird led us to an address in Rue Lamartine which turned out to be yet another bar. “This is the place,” he said, pointing to the open door. It wasn’t a bar like the Gambetta or those along the river bank; it was far more sleazy; far more like what we were used to. Walking in was like walking into a cave, into the unknown; like being summoned into the headmaster’s office after you’ve been caught smoking weed behind the bike sheds. It was dark and dank, and you couldn’t fight the sense of foreboding that seeped into your joints.

  “This is it?” I whispered.

  Bird nodded, but didn’t seem quite sure. We were quiet, almost tip-toeing. You always seem to be quiet when there’s no one else around; and, there was no one else around; not a soul.

  “Are you sure?”

  Bird nodded again. “Positive,” he whispered back.

  “Allo, allo!” yelled Amos, startling both Bird and I. The echo of Amos’s voice petered out and there was silence once again.

  “This can’t be it,” I hissed, nervously.

  “Why are you two whispering?” asked Amos, somewhat pertinently.

  “Good question,” I whispered.

  Then we heard something; a feint rustling sound that seemed to come from an upstairs room. Someone was moving; the pad of footsteps on stairs. We looked anxiously at one another. I saw a lump crawling down Bird’s throat as he swallowed. Amos coughed and everything went white. There was a wild flurry of activity and I could hear a man jabbering away at us in French from behind the blinding light. Amos was trying to talk back to him but he refused to have his flow interrupted.

  “Non comprende!” shouted Amos, “Non comprende!”