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

by Paul Harris

  There was a group of girls and boys getting a little rowdy, not as rowdy as Buffalo and Lola, but they were strangers and, besides, everybody was accustomed to Buffalo shouting the odds. The boys were drunk and were beginning to make a nuisance of themselves. The two girls were drunk too but they were pretty so nobody cared if they made a nuisance of themselves. One of them caught my eye and gave me a look of recognition. I couldn’t place her though and I’ve got a pretty good memory for faces, especially pretty ones. The whole situation reeked of bother, and those days were long behind me. I tried to evade her gaze and avoid making eye contact with her.

  Timmy was staring blankly at the television screen. He was possibly counting the commercials so that he could participate in the great debate which was still rolling along nicely.

  “What about tomorrow?” I asked him.

  “No. I think he only goes in on a Saturday.”

  “It is Saturday tomorrow, Tim.”

  He shook his head, plaintively.

  “Not tomorrow, then?”

  “It’s not the right Saturday.”

  I was about to ask him what the difference was between right Saturdays and wrong Saturdays when I became aware of the drunk girl tugging at my shirt. Timmy turned his back and retreated, once more, into television land.

  I turned on her, rather too aggressively, annoyed by her imposition. The path that I now trod was supposed to be one of calm and tranquillity, avoiding the pitfalls of confrontation, and finally arriving at a place that one of my counsellors had referred to as self-realisation. I would like to say that this was because I was a changed man, and had grown up, and had matured but, deep down, I knew that it was only because I was still under license.

  “What you doing? Mind the threads!” I pulled my shirt from the grip of her fingers.

  She stood before me, swaying slightly, and completely unperturbed by my unwarranted outburst. She ran her fingers through her light blonde hair, and then, extremely curiously, sniffed them each in turn.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” She said it so loudly and so freely that I knew, even then, that she could potentially lead me into so much trouble. I knew I had to escape her.

  “I’ve never seen you before; I would have remembered.” I glanced at the clock which hung beside the optics behind the bar as if to hint at my impending departure.

  “You lying bastard!” she yelled. I was mortified; everybody had heard her. The clatter of dominos halted abruptly as the players turned to face me, searching my rapidly reddening face for the signs of guilt that they assumed were haunting me. Timmy allowed his attention to be drawn from the television screen and for it to settle on my spurious altercation. Even Buffalo stopped ranting about the mediocrity of Hovis adverts.

  I thought about clasping my hand over her mouth to stop whatever was coming next. I cleared my throat and began to stammer but could produce no definable end product. She smiled, just ever so slightly, and I could have sworn that I saw her surreptitiously wink at me. Then she slapped me across my left cheek. I winced with the pain. My flesh was stinging but before I could make any remonstrance, she was bowling along again with yet more nonsense.

  “You remember alright! You promised me the world! And what did you give me? Fucking herpes, that’s what!”

  “What?” I was totally bemused; stumbling in the dark for an escape route. I could see Buffalo peeking through the crowd with an accusing expression on his face. Timmy was standing right next to her, shaking his head at me as if he were completely disgusted with my behaviour.

  “I’ve never seen this woman before in my life,” I uttered to him.

  Then, she raised her voice yet another decibel. “Oh, act all innocent now will you?”

  At this point, I gathered my senses and grabbed her by the arm. “Let’s talk about this outside.” I dragged her through the assembled audience and into the street. She, on her part, put up very little resistance and seemed almost as relieved as I was that it was over. Once the two of us were alone, she was instantly reduced to a fit of hysterics. I was breathing heavily and still trembling with rage.

  “Got your attention, then!” she gasped.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I came, I saw, I conquered.”

  “And, what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I saw you, I liked you, you know.”

  “Yeah, like I’m George Clooney, or something.”

  She smiled, mischievously. “You’re okay.”

  “You could have just asked for my number. I believe that’s the normal procedure.”

  “I wanted to get away from those guys in the pub; they’re just hassle, you know. I couldn’t just slip away and ask for your number, they’d have kicked off about it.” We were walking aimlessly in the direction of the station. She seemed to pick the pace up when she recalled her former drinking buddies.

  “You know what you said in there? Can you remember? Herpes!”

  “Yeah,” she smirked, “No one’ll want you now. Apart from me.” She looped her arm through mine and began to steer me towards the Volunteer. “You’re all mine,” she beamed, a gold capped tooth glinting in the street lighting.

  “You don’t hang about, do you?”

  “Life’s short,” was her reply, and the thought struck me that it could be made all the more shorter by getting involved with her so hastily.

  “Where’re we going?”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “To be honest, I just want to go home and go to bed.”

  As we reached the underground station a police car swung into the High Street and gave a blast on its siren as it sped off into the distance.

  “Suits me,” she said.

  “Alone, I mean. I’m knackered.” I yawned as if to convince her and she unhooked her arm from mine.

  “Well, will you at least walk me to the cab office?”

  “Yeah, I can do that.”

  We crossed Bridge Road at the pedestrian crossing. The police car that we’d seen earlier came hurtling back up the High Street with its siren on and its blue lights flashing. It skidded to a halt outside one of the shop-fronts on the bridge approach. Harsh reflections bounced from shop window to shop window creating a glitter ball effect in the streets. They accelerated off in the opposite direction. “I wonder who they’re looking for?” I pondered aloud.

  “Who cares?” she replied. “Your name’s Rodney, right? Are we going to meet up again? Maybe go out?”

  “Yeah, why not?” I said whilst actually meaning to say: “No, not on your life!” but letting impetuosity get the better of me again. “What’s your name?”

  We stopped outside the cab office and an Indian man peered through the window at us. I noticed some bread crumbs hanging from his roughly trimmed moustache and that one of his eyes appeared to be made from glass.

  “Brie.” She turned to face me and put a hand on my waist. I think that she was waiting for me to stoop down and kiss her but the man with the glass eye was still spookily craning his neck over her right shoulder and I can’t perform in front of an audience.

  “Shall we exchange numbers or something, Brie?”

  “Okay, cool. You gonna call me, though?”

  I handed her my phone and she keyed her number in and then called herself before saving both numbers. “I’ll call you tomorrow; I promise. Maybe we can do something tomorrow night?”

  “Sure! If you’re not too tired!” she smiled, and then we gave each other a quite formal hug and tentatively kissed as if it were the first time ever for either of us. I winked at the man with the glass eye and he turned away, finally wiping the bread crumbs from his facial hair.

  “You going to be okay?”

  “I’ll text you when I get home.” She disappeared into the office and I watched as the man stood up to greet her.

  I’ve used that cab office a hundred times or more and no one ever stood up to greet me when I entered.

  Chapter Four

&n
bsp; Maude McAndrews

  Maude McAndrews had finished her shopping and fancied treating herself to a cappuccino with chocolate sprinkles on the new patio area outside the Trumpet. She headed that way, pulling her tartan shopping trolley behind her, gouged as it was with tinned vegetables and medicines meant for ailments that she had never suffered. She laboured with the heavy load through the crowded streets and up the steep curbs of the road, muttering curses under her breath as the tiny wheels were snagged on debris, ceased to rotate, and scraped along the pock-marked surface of the pavement, gathering crisp packets and chocolate bar wrappers before them. Her glasses were steaming up with her exertion. She pushed them onto the bridge of her nose and strained to see through them.

  It was busy at the Trumpet and the only available seats were at a table that was already occupied by the posh man who used to go with Ringlet. He was pretending to read the Daily Telegraph, his giant nose turned up into the deep carbon monoxide, and his wandering eyes examining everything. He made her convulse as their gazes met. Maude knew that he wasn’t what he led people to believe he was. She knew, most positively, as only she could, that he was a liar. Reluctantly, she headed towards his table but before she reached it, there was a commotion on the opposite side of the road. Men were running along the pavement, barging people out of the way; women were screaming and a tin of mushy peas rolled into the road. The men ran into Ambrose Street, and out of her line of vision.

  She sniffed her disdain and turned the huge lenses of her spectacles back towards Henshaw House as if they were searchlights over a prisoner of war camp. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ringlet’s older brother crossing the road, weaving between stationary traffic, towards the Trumpet. He spoke to the man with the big nose and the look of deceit in his eye. They shook hands and, with what she thought were furtive glances in her direction, went inside to the bar. She shivered and shook herself down as if cleansing the scene from her soul, and turned the scarlet bangle that adorned her wrist, around and around, contemplating her options. She decided against a cappuccino and walked on to the bus stop and the comfort of her semi-detached house in her quiet cul-de-sac, where people lived whom she could trust.

  As she passed the station, a man was sitting on the steps at the entrance, dressed in nothing more than rags. He raised his head and gazed at her with a plaintive expression in his eyes. His matted hair hung discordantly around his face and his cheeks were sunken and unshaven. A pitch black mongrel lay at his side asleep and oblivious and content. For a moment her scowl was broken and she tossed a one pound coin into the cardboard box beside them. The man smiled his gratitude but seemed unable to vocalise it. The dog opened one of its eyes and peered at her, and then instantly closed it again as indifference was resumed.

  Maude continued on her way towards the High Street, the burden of her shopping trolley multiplying with every one of her short laboured steps. The handle dug into her brittle fingers as she clasped it. The joints of her knuckles shot pains up the inside of her arm. She swapped hands and began to drag it with her left. She thrust her right hand deep into her coat pocket and explored with her fingers to confirm that she had the correct change for her bus fare.

  Whilst waiting at the pedestrian crossing, she noticed a familiar face, still running, still running; the low-life who had been hanging around her daughter of late. She cast him a steely look; one that would shake him to his core, or so was her intention. The green man was illuminated and she began to cross. As Rodney disappeared around the corner next to the bookmaker’s, she heard the screech of tyres as a speeding car turned into the High Street.

  Allergy Dance

  Burning hearts are enveloped within a burning skin. Deep passions are trapped inside a toxic jail. Dark trails of aching blood, like volcanic lava, seep through the dry and dusty cracks and form a route map that guides them around in endlessly pitiful circles. Bend, straighten, walk, sit, stand; it’s all the same to them; it’s pain; the same constant nagging pain. It haunts them every second of every minute of every hour of every day; and night.

  Snow falls at their feet, corrupting the ground upon which they tread, leaving a trail of DNA through every footfall of their journey through this life and the next, and on towards eventual liberty. Frustration and injustice: the dark moods that blacken the very clouds as storms gather, and the storm gathers when the pain begins to brood. It sends one’s mind pirouetting into a mire of self-loathing and regret until one is beating one’s head against a door or a wall and feeling the blood pouring across one’s face. Never admit that this thing has started to beat you.

  They can’t spell it let alone begin to understand its meaning and its reasoning. It is their fate and they walk on through Hell, picking their way between missed opportunities, performing their very own allergy dance.

  We stumble on through the heat and the confusion; through the whirling, crashing, grinding noise of destruction. The flames grow higher, licking the sky, burning our faces, and claiming our skin for themselves. Our fragile world resonates with a ghastly creak and a wooden rafter crashes to the ground, devouring our ability to survive. Our consciousness is engulfed by heat and panic, and good friends are gone forever.

  But the pain remains the same; the constant nagging pain.

  The Two Mad Boys

  From a very early age, her boys were a couple of little scamps. She struggled alone to deal with the decibel levels and to curb the destruction. There was nothing immune and nothing sacred, they obliterated everything.

  “I can’t love boys who behave like that!” she would scream at their every misdemeanour; but she lied, she would love her pair of miscreants until even her dying breath.

  She tried everything she knew to appeal to their better natures. She knew that they both had a better nature. She pleaded with them to stop breaking the neighbours’ windows and stealing from the corner shop. She begged them to stop throwing stones at passing trains from the bridge near the station. She threatened to call the police but then they started throwing house bricks at police cars from the bridge over the bypass.

  She told them that she would send them away to a place where they would be taught to behave properly; where men with big sticks would beat them across the back of their legs until they were good. She was called to the school when they started beating their classmates across the back of their legs with tree branches.

  She threatened to go away and leave them on their own if they didn’t start being kind to her. Many, many times she told them this and she thought that finally her threats were beginning to work. The thought of losing their mother frightened them; it was the only thing that did. For a short time, it subdued their burgeoning excesses of violence. All through boyhood and their teenage years, the threat of abandonment shadowed them.

  Until, one day, by a huge stroke of good fortune, they managed to rob a female police officer of her handcuffs. They met their mother outside Tesco’s where she had a part-time job on the checkout, and walked her home. They wheeled their bicycles either side of her as if they were a grand guard of honour. Once inside their flat, they walked her to her bedroom and chained her to her bedstead. She screamed and resisted and lashed out and pleaded with them with all her might. She swore that she would never ever really leave them. The two boys were happy and smiled at each other because now they knew she never would.

  Chapter Five

  In The Ditch

  The next day was Saturday but, as has already been established it was the wrong Saturday to meet up with Amos. So, I waited until ten o’clock to phone Brie in case she was suffering with a hangover. I arranged to meet her that evening, and then spent the rest of the day resisting the temptation to go to the Pig & Whistle and thereby ruining my appetite for a night out.

  It took me hours to think of an alternative Saturday afternoon pursuit which made me realise how bereft of variety my life actually was. I phoned Buffalo and asked him if he fancied a trip into the West End. It was twelve o’clock and he was already in the pu
b. He agreed to my plan and so did Lola who was standing next to him when I called but they wanted me to meet them in the pub. Once there, I knew that I’d be unable to draw them away from the comfort zone of the bar and that they would persuade me to stay with them there and that that would ultimately ruin my date with Brie. I told them that I’d be there in fifteen minutes but had no intention of going anywhere near the place.

  I called Timmy but he’d gone down to Sandown with his dad and his uncle Les who was a huge gambling man and always claimed that he won thousands every week; on the horses, on the football, or on the dogs. I never ever saw Uncle Les wearing a shirt that wasn’t frayed at the collar and the cuffs, and wasn’t screaming out for a damned good spin in a washing machine. He drove a battered MG Metro, and the green paintwork coupled with the huge swathes of rust resulted in it looking as though it were camouflaged. He always parked it far away from his final destination and walked the last couple of hundred yards so that nobody saw it. Then he would claim the most expensive car on the car park as his own. He had a new car every time you saw him. He would belittle John Prescott, “Two Jags? Only two Jags? You should see what’s sitting on my drive! Eh, Timmy?”

  Timmy would shrink away with embarrassment. Someone would say, “We know what’s sitting on your drive, Les,” but he’d pretend not to hear them. “A heap of shit!” Then Les would shift the subject onto his holding in the stock market or maybe the villa he was buying in Spain or Portugal or Italy, depending on what day you saw him. Eventually, he would begin to contradict and confuse himself; the lies would peter out, and he would return to his Metro two streets away and spend twenty minutes attempting to get the engine to turn over.