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

by Paul Harris

  “Great.” I rammed another slice of pizza into my mouth just to make sure I wouldn’t be able to agree to any more of her ridiculous proposals.

  “Do you want a glass of wine?”

  I shook my head.

  “I won’t drink a whole bottle.”

  Exasperated, I swallowed another whole slice of pizza in one go. “Why did you order it then?”

  She knew I had a point so didn’t reply. I glanced at the menu, scanning the wine list. “Seventeen pounds and how much?” I muttered to myself.

  “Tight git!” she muttered to herself.

  When I summoned the waitress over to request the bill, Brie stopped me and decided to order a slice of cheesecake instead, even though there were still three slices of pizza left on her plate. I ground my teeth together but managed to force a smile of acquiescence between them nonetheless. I tipped the slice of lemon out of my glass and began to suck the juice out of it as Brie sliced the cheesecake up into tiny pieces, pushed them around her plate with a fork, and abandoned them too.

  “Aren’t you going to eat your cheesecake, sweetheart?” I pleasantly enquired of her as I raged inside.

  “No, I’m full.”

  I paid the bill on my debit card and we left. Brie collected the half bottle of wine from the table and at the door stopped to chat with our waitress for five minutes after insisting that I leave her a five pounds cash tip. They promised to add each other on facebook and I realised that I was no closer to understanding women than I had ever been.

  Full Moon

  They walked hand in hand along the rain swept footpath towards the river, oblivious to the heavy drops pounding their bare heads. A minute stream of water trickled down her neck and temporarily stained the back of her sky blue dress. She wiggled and laughed. He placed his arm around her and pulled her tighter. They walked slowly and aimlessly, forcing the moment to last for as long as possible, squeezing what they could out of it, knowing that this brief passage in their lives would never be repeated.

  When they reached the bridge, they clung to the balustrade as the wind roared along the river towards them. The hem of her dress fluttered and flapped in the gale, rising slightly and exposing her thighs. She tugged at it, pulling it back across her knees. He laughed and kissed her on the lips.

  They looked down into the dark forbidding river as it flowed recklessly, crashing into the sunken piers of the bridge. She raised the neck of a bottle to her lips and poured a mouthful of its contents into her throat. Through the torrent of rain, they caught a glimpse of the full moon. Rodney howled like a werewolf and they began to head back in the direction from where they had come.

  They kissed again when they arrived at the cab office, and hugged, and kissed again.

  “You could come back to mine,” he murmured in her ear.

  “Not on the first date. I’ll see you on Wednesday.” She walked into the office and the operator stood up to greet her with a broad smile on his face and biscuit crumbs in his beard.

  Fernando Ricksen

  The next day, I took a detour via the newsagents and bought twenty Benson and Hedges and a copy of the Independent. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation, just my own space in a social setting. I kept my head bowed, avoiding the possibility of eye contact, as I followed a well-worn path. I stopped at the corner, momentarily, as if I had a decision to make; as if there was, as yet, a realistic alternative. Then, I marched on, oblivious to all around me.

  When I entered the Pig & Whistle, I couldn’t help noticing how sombre the mood was. It was as though I had stumbled into a wake. As the conversation unfolded, it became clear that somebody had, indeed, died and were being deeply mourned. I didn’t recognise the name but, nevertheless, I stood at the bar, clutching my pint glass, silently and respectfully. My newspaper was still rolled up.

  As Buffalo and the others spoke about the unfortunate and, seemingly, violent events that had led to this dreadful fatality, I wondered why I hadn’t heard about it until now. Timmy Cubberley’s eyes were bloodshot and he looked as though he’d been crying all night. I couldn’t understand how it was that I didn’t know who they were talking about. It was as though they had another world going on from which I was excluded.

  Upon realising that they were discussing events from the previous week’s episodes of Emmerdale, I went and sat down, opening my newspaper and spreading it across the table in front of me. Only then did it occur to me that my eyesight was beginning to fail me. I had to hold the pages at arms- length so that I could focus properly on the words. It appeared that a trip to Specsavers was on the cards and I didn’t need a television commercial to tell me so.

  “What you reading about, Rod?”

  “It’s an article about Fernando Ricksen.”

  “Who?”

  I looked up at Timmy. He was standing over me, smiling. “You been crying?”

  “Don’t be stupid! It must be hay fever, innit. I keep rubbing my eyes. They’re proper itchy.”

  “Fernando Ricksen. He was a Dutch footballer who played for Glasgow Rangers and Holland amongst others.” Timmy looked blank and I could tell that he wasn’t really listening to me. I proceeded anyway. “He was a bit of a nutter by all accounts; kept getting sent off and banned and all that. Seems he was a piss-head too. Threw the Rangers chairman into a swimming pool in Greece and then got kicked out of the Dutch squad for smashing a hotel door down.”

  I’d captured Timmy’s attention now and he began to laugh at Ricksen’s alleged antics.

  “He got banned from driving, got done for breach of the peace and for assault. He got sent home from pre-season training in South Africa for an incident involving large amounts of alcohol and an air stewardess on the flight over there.”

  “What did he do to her?” interrupted Timmy, with wide-eyed curiosity.

  “I don’t know, it doesn’t say, but I need to find out though. But, apparently he was a half decent player too. He was voted Scottish player of the year in 2005.”

  “I thought you said he was Dutch!”

  “You know what I mean! Anyway, the point of the article is that he’s been diagnosed with motor neurone disease and is basically completely fucked now. He’s only thirty-eight and its, bang! Game over. It’s a really sad story but really interesting. I’ve never heard of him before.”

  “I think he’s a racing driver.”

  “I just told you he was a footballer.”

  “No, I think he’s one of them Formula One drivers off the telly.”

  “That’s Fernando Alonso, Tim. Fernando Ricksen was a footballer.”

  “Didn’t think you was into football.”

  “I’m not; it’s a human interest story.” I turned the page and began to feign intense fascination in an article about Ann Widdecombe and her remarkable ability for being offensive to, and dismissive of, just about everybody.

  “What you reading about now?” asked Timmy.

  “I’m not; I’m just waiting for you to go back to the bar and leave me alone.”

  “There’s no need to be like that.” I looked up at him and it was clear in his expression that I’d genuinely hurt his feelings. I regretted being so curt towards him.

  “Sorry, Tim, but I just want to read my paper in peace, you know.”

  “But, Buffalo’s boring the arse off me up there!” he whined.

  “But, I thought you watched Emmerdale?”

  I gave up and began to fold my newspaper up. He smiled. “Yeah, I do; I never miss, but he’s going on about gardening appliances now and what blade you gotta use in a strimmer and things like that. Can’t I sit here and read your paper with you?” He began to position a chair next to me.

  “Really? Why would you want to do that? Big words and no tits?”

  He sat down, although still uninvited, and seemed to be preparing to confide something in me. “I need a change of direction. I’ve got plans, you know.”

  “What sort of plans?”

  “Just plans.”

&nbs
p; I bore into him with my most questioning look and I knew that he had something that he wanted to tell me, but he refrained, instead taking the newspaper from under the hand that I’d laid on it. He started flicking through the pages, slowly, one at a time. “So, where’s this thing about the Scottish footballer?”

  Before I could answer him, Buffalo shouted over from his perch at the bar. “Rod! You got a strimmer?”

  “No, I haven’t got a garden!”

  “You see Emmerdale last night?”

  “No! What’s that got to do with not having a strimmer? Or a garden?”

  “What do you do? Anything? Anything at all?”

  I sighed, snatched my paper from Timmy’s grip, and left, scattering petulance in my wake as I went.

  Suspect Device

  As I marched home, someone brushed past me in the street. I heard him mutter something to the effect that, “For every one you kill, you make ten more like me.”

  I couldn’t remember killing anyone for ages so I assumed his comments weren’t directed at me. But I followed him with my eyes and he was gazing back at me with a crazy look on his face so I assumed that it was indeed me who had upset him.

  At the corner outside the newsagents he shook someone’s hand and even then he was still looking back at me. He had a rucksack on his back which he removed and passed to the other man.

  Then a police car tore up to them with flashing blue lights and sirens blaring. The two men began to make off in opposite directions but an unmarked car screeched to a halt across the pavement and two officers hurriedly climbed from it bearing semi-automatics. A helicopter hovered overhead. Another police car sped around the corner and I instinctively changed course and darted off in the opposite direction.

  “What’s all the kerfuffle about, son?” asked an elderly man who bore the final remnants and last surviving strands of a head of ginger hair. We were standing at the pedestrian crossing waiting for the lights to change.

  “Looks like the Old Bill just bagged themselves a couple of terrorists,” I confidently informed him.

  The old man started chuckling to himself as the green man was illuminated. “Really?” He caught hold of my arm and held me tight as if he were going to confide in me. “Looks more like that lunatic from the laundrette, Omar. He’s not all there, you know. Shame really.”

  “Looks more like he’s got a backpack full of explosives and he’s handing them over to a suicide bomber. They wouldn’t have armed police all over them otherwise, would they?”

  “Suicide bomber?” The old man laughed heartily. “That’s Sammy Patel from the corner shop. The boy’s just taking his laundry back to him.” The old man hobbled off laughing loudly. He disappeared into the crowd of onlookers just as the sound of a single gunshot resonated along the street.

  Chapter Six

  The Olympic Velodrome

  As she had threatened, Brie met me outside the leisure centre on Wednesday evening shortly after seven o’clock. She had a spring in her step and seemed quite excited to see me. In contrast, I was feeling quite anxious about what lay ahead of us. Not so much because of the prospect of a sudden surge of exercise because I was sure that I could blag my way through that, but because I wasn’t sure that I’d brought the appropriate equipment and clothing with me and I didn’t want to look too out of place. She skipped over to me, flung her arms around my neck, and kissed me full on the lips.

  “What’s up grumpy?”

  I squeezed out a smile. “Nothing really. I just realised earlier that my gym gear’s still in the laundry basket from my last workout.”

  “Really? Your last workout?” She seemed a little doubtful.

  “Yes, so I’ve had to bring this stuff with me. I’m gonna look ridiculous.”

  She led me up the steps to the entrance of the centre. “It doesn’t matter how you look, babe, it’s not a fashion show.” I pushed against the glass of the door as it slid open automatically. “When was your last workout, anyway? How long does your dirty laundry live in your laundry basket?”

  I didn’t answer her. I took my wallet from the back pocket of my jeans, in anticipation of paying an entrance fee, and began to fumble with it as a diversion. She stopped walking and I turned to face her. She was standing with her hands on her hips, silently demanding an explanation.

  “I went for a run on Monday, along the river, and back over the park.”

  “It rained Monday night.”

  “It rains nearly every night.”

  She seemed satisfied with my rapidly fabricated account and breezed past me, handing her membership card to the middle aged woman who was manning the reception desk. They were on first name terms and Brie explained to the receptionist that I was merely a visitor and wanted to use the gymnasium.

  “He needs to book an induction.” She addressed herself to Brie as if I wasn’t there.

  Brie addressed herself to me as if the receptionist wasn’t there. “Didn’t you say that you’d done an induction here?” she prompted.

  “Yes,” I lied, “a few months ago. But I only visit occasionally; when I’m in the neighbourhood. I spend a lot of time abroad.”

  Brie looked at me as if to say, “Okay, don’t push it!”

  The receptionist smiled and said, “Okay, that’s fine. Six pounds and fifty pence, please.”

  “Mostly the States,” I went on, “and Japan, the far east, Hong Kong, Singapore, you know. Six pounds and how much!”

  “You can get a membership for fifteen ninety-nine a month. That would be much better value for you.”

  “I’ll see how it goes. I’m filming in L.A. next month,” I said and then handed her a ten pound note, took my change and receipt from her, and followed Brie into the ladies’ changing room.

  Once I’d found the appropriate changing room and established myself in a spacious enough locker, then gone back outside to the reception desk to ask for a pound coin so that I could operate the lock on the locker, then been refused change by the overly-officious receptionist whilst being told to stay out of the ladies’ changing room, then fed a five pound note into a vending machine to buy a protein drink that I didn’t want anyway just so that I could get change out of that, I changed into my gym kit which consisted of a pair of grey Slazenger jogging bottoms and a yellow Ramones t-shirt.

  As I attempted to exit the changing room, a huge mountain of a man came through the door in the opposite direction. We clumsily tried to side-step each other. I apologised for no particular reason and he looked me up and down with what I thought I detected was a grin on his face. I was surprised he didn’t just laugh in my face; or kick sand in it.

  Outside, in the gym, Brie was already on the treadmill. She was wearing a tight pink singlet and an even tighter pair of very short shorts. Bubbles of sweat were already forming on her shoulders as she pounded away and patches of dampness were forming on the fabric of her top. She saw my reflection in the mirror in front of her and beckoned me with a wide smile. I stopped licking my lips and stepped onto the treadmill next to her.

  “You speed it up with that,” she instructed, pressing a button on my machine.

  I waved her away. “I know. I don’t want to speed it up.”

  “But it’s not moving!”

  “It’s moving fast enough. I’m just warming up.”

  Step by step, I gradually increased the speed but had come to a firm decision that I wouldn’t try to increase it to the speed that Brie was now running at for fear that if my legs suddenly stopped working the thing would spit me across the floor of the gym and really make me look foolish. The huge mirrors in front of us ran the entire length of the row of treadmills and through them I watched as people passed behind us. Great misshapen men with unfeasibly huge arms walked by without necks and each one of them slowed their pace to a casual saunter as they surreptitiously scanned Brie’s rear and nodded with approval to themselves. The amount of attention that she was commanding made me wonder if I was punching well above my weight. I felt under press
ure to be something that I was not.

  “I think I’ve warmed up enough now,” I said to her.

  She glanced at the electronic readout on the front of my machine. “You’ve only been on it for a hundred and ten seconds.”

  “And what’s your point?”

  Three treadmills to my left were two rather large ladies having what could only be described as a leisurely stroll. They were chatting quite amiably and it occurred to me that they would probably burn off more calories pushing a shopping trolley around Sainsbury’s on a Saturday afternoon. They’d paid their money and this is how they sought a better life. Neither of them came close to breaking into a sweat the whole time I was there. I wondered if they ever asked themselves why all this gym work didn’t seem to be having much of an effect.

  I leapt from my treadmill and mounted a bicycle right behind Brie so that I could watch her just as everybody else seemed to be doing. She could see me in the mirror and I poked my tongue out at her before running it backwards and forwards along my lips. She giggled to herself and then pretended to ignore me.

  One of the instructors strolled along the aisle between the treadmills and the bikes and looked at me with a curious expression.

  “Alright?” I gasped.

  He held his expression until giving me a quite disparagingly false smile from between the gaps in his teeth. I didn’t feel welcome or encouraged, in fact quite the opposite. The sneering looks that I encountered did nothing to boost my confidence. Brie, however, seemed to be enjoying herself as she began waving her arms about on the treadmill and, thereby, attracting even more attention. She was mouthing along to Lady Gaga who was being piped into us on a continuous loop along with Rihanna and Pink for company.

  Somehow Lady Gaga managed to encourage me to step up the pace on my bike. I pushed until I could barely breathe. Sweat was pouring from my every pore. When my lungs started aching, I slowed again, and gazed at the television screens that were spread generously throughout. I’d never seen an episode of “Keeping Up with the Kardashians” before and made a mental note to investigate what it was actually about, before I launched myself into another world record breaking lap of my virtual Olympic velodrome.