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

by Paul Harris

  It’s the dream of the twentieth century: a shopping paradise. There’s no rain to worry about, no wind, no traffic or pollution, and no drunks staggering from pub doorways on a Saturday afternoon. And, there are no more spinsters tending their corner shops, and no more delivery boys on bicycles, and no more picking and choosing exactly the cut of meat that you want. Best of all is that you can still get it all on tick. All you need is something called a credit card and you never ever have to pay for anything again.

  Take the checkout girl; she’s in a shopping heaven all of her own. She may appear to be fairly restrained but, deep inside, she is ravished by ecstasy. She’s no longer actually a girl, of course. She ceased being one of those many years ago when her sons were born; and God alone only knows how those boys drove the youth from her veins. But no one ever heard of a checkout woman. She smiles inanely, the training manual smile. She swivels smoothly and continually in her seat, as an automaton, sweeping colourfully packaged products across the eye of a barcode reader, and then she mechanically spews out the total. “Seventy-one pounds and ninety-two pence please, Sir. Clubcard, Sir? Thank you, Sir. Thank you, Madam. Nice day, Sir.” Then she does it all over again; hundreds of times every day.

  She puckers her scarlet lipstick-layered lips as distant memories pass through her still and gentle mind. The grooves around her mouth are reminiscent of the ridges around Mount Etna. Her eyes are blank except for the infrequent glimmer of hope. Her long pointed nose twitches as a slender tear runs down it and is absorbed by her bone-dry skin.

  She used to know everybody who lived around here, but not anymore. Before they built the supermarket, they built housing estates; hundreds of houses with gardens and driveways, with double garages and double mortgages. They knocked down the old homes and the white painted goalposts and the washing lines that spanned from brick back yard to teetering fence panel and bound a community together. The estate agents pushed up the market value of each and every plot in order to line their own pockets. They pushed the hoi polloi out and made the area more upmarket. Young couples moved in with wailing brats and Alfa Romeos. The girls that she grew up with moved out to the coast or the provinces while she lost her job at the post office when it was bulldozed to make way for the new ring road.

  She had lost her husband many years earlier when he’d staggered from the Ironmaster in Tewkesbury Street one Sunday tea-time and been hit by a speeding boy racer in an XR2i. The kid mounted the pavement and swept all before him before coming to a sudden halt either side of a crooked lamp post.

  At four o’clock, or around that time, she is relieved at her till by a seventeen year old girl named Chloe. Chloe grunts an amiable exchange of greetings and places the company smile on her pretty untroubled face. The older lady buys forty Regal on staff discount, slips on her worn beige duffel coat in the draughty staff room, and walks home across the park.

  A couple of dozen boys of varying shapes and sizes are playing football; running in rags and using the stilted vocabulary of millionaire playboys. “On me ‘ead, John! Man on! Take him down!” A small mixed race boy, his ribs protruding through a red, white and green striped round-neck t-shirt, jumps six inches off the ground. The ball sails through the air from a goal kick and strikes him on the ear. It spins upwards towards the sky and then descends rapidly, landing on a Tesco bag stuffed with tracksuit tops.

  “Goal, Marty!” congratulates another boy, running over and patting his back.

  “Post!” protests the defending goalkeeper through the brace on his teeth, arms outstretched appealing in the style of Peter Schmeichel. “It hit the post!” His freckled face is flushed with indignation.

  Martin runs forward and pounces on the ball. He spins it between his fingers and then throws it to the goalkeeper. “Okay, post; close though.”

  “Should have been a goal,” mutters his team mate. “Real posts aren’t as wide. It would have hit the post and gone in.”

  “That’s if it was a real post,” emphasises Martin philosophically, a crescent of bright white teeth betraying an amicable nature.

  She stands and watches them play, smoking one of her Embassy Regals, and periodically clasping her hands together almost nervously.

  The goalkeeper kicks the ball high into the air and straight into the opposing goalmouth where it is fumbled by the rush-back goalie. Fortuitously, it falls for Martin, the pocket dynamo, the star man. He begins a dribbling, mazy run. He runs the length of the fifty yard pitch. He takes aim! He shoots! He misses! So close again! The ball clips the outside of the Tesco’s bag, spilling a pair of grey woollen gloves onto the damp grass, and runs away down the slope, straight to where she is standing daydreaming, cigarette ash tumbling onto the front of her duffel coat.

  Martin keeps running after the ball so that he can retrieve it before it plops into the stream at the bottom of the hill. She sees the lad hurtling towards her like the hare at Catford dog track. She puts out a foot and stops the ball. Martin stops running and smiles pleasantly at her. She returns his smile and kicks the ball towards him. But she miss-kicks it and it jerks awkwardly off the toe of her flat-bottomed shoe and rolls off down the slope, landing in the rushing water after all. Martin slaps his forehead, Homer style. “Doh!”

  She grimaces, sheepishly, and fumbles for another cigarette, silently mouthing the word, “Sorry.”

  But, the ball has already been retrieved and Martin, panting heavily, looks her square in the face. “You want to play, Miss Lady?” His ivory teeth sparkle through the tear in her eye. Her boys could never be this way.

  Hamlet Cigars

  One Friday evening, I popped into the Volunteer near the station to see if my old mate Amos was still around the manor. Years ago we used to meet in the Vol every Friday evening after work, but times had evidently moved on, and he wasn’t there. No one seemed to know who he was either. I didn’t even know if he was still alive or not. The Volunteer had changed too. The place just wasn’t really my scene anymore. It was full of office girls sipping latte, but I pulled up a stool and ordered a pint of Amstel anyway. As I was trying to console myself as to how the price of lager had risen so disproportionately in relationship to everything else apart from cigarettes, I heard a couple of girls behind me giggling and whispering. I turned around to see the dental nurse and a girlfriend tucked away, secluded and dark in a corner, sharing a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.

  I could sense that those peculiarly gem-like eyes were on me. I smiled, and she smiled back at me. I, silently, asked her if she wanted a drink and she pointed at the bottle. I got another one, took it over to them, and sat down opposite her.

  The nurse introduced herself as Petra. Her friend, whose name was Volta, had an interesting laugh and a tidy enough figure, but she looked like an evacuee from a smallpox epidemic. She constantly manipulated the conversation so that it focussed on her and her vigorous but entirely superficial love life. Whenever Petra and I addressed each other, she would interrupt and steer the conversation in a direction which suited her. I was waiting for her to go to the toilet so that I could make my move on Petra, but when she finally did go, she insisted that Petra went with her, in a way that only girls can get away with.

  Volta’s self-obsessive monologue completely broke my resolve and quenched my ardour. As they emptied the bottle that I’d bought them, I made my excuses and left before they could put another one on my account. I smiled an emphatic farewell to the dental nurse and retreated to the comparative familiarity of the Pig & Whistle.

  When I got to the Pig, Sky News was on a loop showing the same dirge of depression and disaster over and again; from the foothills of Kurdistan and the ports of the Crimea to terrorist atrocities in Sydney, Paris, and Peshawar. If you came here to drown your sorrows, you were in the wrong place. The world’s sorrows would drown you. The only respite was a raucous debate concerning the merits of Persil versus Bold versus Daz versus Aerial. If that didn’t rock your boat, you needed a change of scenery.

  I gazed at my feet
and wondered if I might be better off going back to the Volunteer and taking my chances with the wine-gulping man-eaters. The sun was setting and there was a slight chill infusing the evening air. I shuddered. Whether it was because of the sudden drop in temperature or the thought of Volta’s self-confessed sexual proclivity and nauseating flirtatiousness, I had no time to ascertain as Timmy Cubberley was beginning to expound on his theories with regard to television advertising.

  “And another thing,” he announced, with a complete lack of self-awareness, “you do know that all them Specsavers adverts they keep showing on the telly are a complete waste of the taxpayers money?”

  I averted my attention towards the television, but for once they weren’t showing commercials. Instead, they were showing a report about another terrorist atrocity, in a café in Sydney this time.

  “Taxpayers money?” baited Lola. “You think so?”

  “Gotta be, innit?” asserted Timmy. “If you need to go to Specsavers and you ain’t already been, how you gonna see the telly? Eh?” He held his open palms out in front of him in the style of a barrister making his final summing up. “See what I mean?”

  Either Timmy Cubberley was an outstanding blagger or he really was that stupid.

  “Good point,” scoffed Lola. “Actually, on a serious note: there were six Specsavers commercials aired on that very television set, in this very public house, last night between six and nine o’clock.”

  “What? You counted them?” I asked, incredulously, feeling an early night coming on.

  “I just happened to notice,” replied Lola, more defensively. “On a more positive note, though, I do know that they’re not funded from the public purse.”

  Buffalo, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet and unobtrusive throughout this riveting passage of conversation, placed his empty pint glass firmly on the bar and wiped his lips on the cuff of his Slazenger pullover. “How empty does your life have to be,” he demanded to know, “to sit there all night counting Specsavers commercials?”

  Thus spoke a man whose life was so empty that he spent the entirety of it propping up the bar of the Pig & Whistle, and ensnaring unwitting passers-by in bizarre debates regarding the virtues of Samsung phones over Apple phones, Kingsmill over Hovis, and Charmin over Andrex, along with various other product comparisons that were of so little relevance, it made me ache.

  Lola took the bait, however, and the pair of them were away. “Not just Specsavers commercials,” he retorted, as if that were a reasonable defence, “I counted those Churchill damned dog commercials too. There were four of them.” He took a sip of beer, licked his lips, and dribbled ever so slightly down his chin. “And you’ll never believe how many ads for Sky were on last night.”

  The Pig & Whistle was a good little boozer. Everybody knew each other and, for the most part, got on well together. Maybe they knew each other a little too well and that’s why the conversation became a little repetitive at times; because they’d run out of things to say to one another. Or maybe they just spent so much time in the pub together that nothing new ever happened to them. Either way, they were a good crowd and meant well.

  It appeared that Buffalo had reached some degree of satisfaction with Lola’s long-winded rationalisation for counting television commercials, and now they were debating their all-time favourite tv ads. Although I was straining like a dog on a leash not to be drawn into the discussion, I couldn’t help but overhear Hamlet Cigars mentioned with some frequency and not a little fondness.

  Timmy, with a look of incomprehension on his face, was also manoeuvring himself out of the increasingly vociferous conversation. None of the regulars in the Pig & Whistle were in any doubt whatsoever that this once friendly exchange would rapidly descend into the usual round of petty squabbling.

  “What you thinking about?” asked Timmy, quietly in my ear.

  I looked at him and he still had a befuddled look in his eyes. He was a strikingly handsome kid with well-groomed blond hair; medium height and well-built; but, his constant look of bemusement coupled with his innate propensity to walk into lamp posts and trip over his own feet seemed to impinge heavily against him. “What you on about, Tim?”

  “You! You’re staring at the furniture.”

  I was surveying the tables that were situated along the back wall, next to the windows and wondering if it would appear impolite if I went and sat down at one of them on my own. “I’m just trying to stay out of the conversation.”

  For a fleeting second, an expression of comprehension seemed to descend upon him. “Don’t blame you. But, what you thinking about? Your lips were moving. Were you talking to yourself?” He mimicked me and it looked like a mad man chewing on a mint imperial.

  “You really want to know?”

  “Can’t be any worse than listening to them pair.”

  “Well, just lately, I’ve been having these really strong dreams; like they’re really happening. I’ve been waking up pissing sweat, my heart pounding, my head pounding, everything pounding. I been waking up thirsty, dry, and all like confused.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Really?”

  “I quite often feel like that.”

  “Mad dreams and all that?” I asked. He looked really glum now, to the point where I wondered if I should give him a hug.

  “No, no, just the confused bit. They dirty? Your dreams and that? Who they about? Tell me it ain’t that bird from the dentist’s”

  “Nah, nah, nothing like that. It sounds silly really. It’s just that this geezer walks into the boozer and buys me a pint.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “That’s the most boring dream I’ve ever heard. Why couldn’t it have been about her from the dentist’s?”

  “But, you don’t get it. It’s hard to explain. He makes me feel so special, like the King of the World.”

  A glimmer of light was illuminated behind Timmy’s eyes. “Perhaps it was the geezer from Camelot and you’ve won the lottery?”

  “Nah, that’ll never happen.”

  “You never know, someone’s gotta win it. It could be you.”

  “I don’t do the lottery. I don’t gamble anymore.”

  “Weirdo!”

  He didn’t mean it nastily but it touched a nerve and, for a moment, I rounded on him. “Why do people keep saying that?”

  “What?”

  “That I’m weird and stuff?”

  “Well, you know, you are a bit, mate.”

  “I don’t like being called weird and strange and things like that,” and as I said it, I felt myself twitching. I rubbed my left eye to try to disguise it.

  Timmy attempted placation. “Well, odd, then?”

  I had both hands to my face now as both my eyes were convulsing involuntarily and rather alarmingly. “Odd’s better. I prefer odd.”

  “What’s the difference?” he asked.

  “Odd doesn’t sound as dangerous.”

  I looked along the row of tables again. They were filling up in preparation for Friday night’s wild antics. Grey-haired men used their fingers to inspect the gaps between the last of their teeth. They gazed dolefully into half-full pint glasses. The clatter of dominoes roused their passions and brought forth their competitive instincts. They bayed like gladiators; taunting and teasing. They convinced one another that each of them yet possessed an element of youth, and then noisily derided that very same element when applied to the young. Silence fell as Joe Large produced the double six. Someone chided him across the table. “How was your trip to Kilburn, Big Joe? Eh?”

  Joe smashed the double six down onto the table as if he meant it to crash straight through the polished surface. He raised a huge and oddly shaped finger and waved it menacingly. “Mind your own!” he growled. The man sitting to Joe’s left tapped his dominoes on the table twice and the game continued. Joe barely took his eye off the man who had enquired about his trip.

  Timmy coughed and broke my train of t
hought. “Didn’t know you was into the doms.”

  I gave him a disparaging glance.

  “Just saying.”

  One of the players knocked the table with a heavy fist. Another of them roared with laughter.

  “Why you late anyway?” he asked me.

  “Been down the Volunteer; just for old times’ sake.”

  “See anyone?”

  “Nah, had a drink with her from the dentists’ and her mate, then come up here.”

  “What? You had a meet with her and her mate? Bit greedy, innit?”

  “Nah, nah, I just bumped into them. Her mate’s as rough as fuck anyway. I just went down there looking for an old mate of mine who used to drink in there.”

  “Her mate with the teeth and the nose?” Timmy paused. “What’s his name?”

  “Yeah, and the zits. Amos.”

  There was a further clattering of dominoes and more verbal posturing from behind us..

  “What? That tall geezer with the freckles and the big spots on the back of his neck.”

  I was gobsmacked. “You know him? You know Amos?”

  “Of course I do. I know everyone.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you knew him?”

  “I didn’t know you knew him.”

  “Does he still drink in the Vol?”

  “More likely down the Trumpet on Saturday afternoons. You want to go down there one Saturday? Just for a change of scenery?”

  Now that Timmy had provided me with a realistic prospect of meeting up with Amos after such a long time, I began to doubt whether it was a good idea after all. So much dirty water had passed beneath the bridge and it was all so long ago that I began to wonder what good could possibly come of it.

  “Rodney!” yelled Buffalo over the noise of the domino crowd.

  “What?”

  “Hamlet cigars!”

  “What?”

  “Best adverts ever.”

  I resisted the bait. I wanted to make a nomination of my own but was struggling to think of something to beat Hamlet Cigars. Buffalo was arguing fiercely. Timmy was still waiting for an answer regarding the proposed rendezvous with Amos. The domino match was in full swing and there seemed to be an element of needle creeping into the proceedings. I was feeling tired and jaded, and just wanted to go home and rest my eardrums, when a further commotion broke out at the opposite end of the bar.