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

by Paul Harris

  In response to Rat’s question, Rodney merely nodded.

  “You look a bit pale, mate.”

  “I’m okay, just got a dodgy tummy.”

  “Been drinking? I told you not to…”

  Rodney became a little flustered. “No, no, no, I ain’t been drinking! Just get on with it!”

  “Just wait a second, okay.” Rat started preparing his equipment. Rodney took a deep breath, tried to relax, and began to look around him, examining his surroundings. There were cardboard boxes stacked two-deep along one wall, as if someone was moving out or moving in. The boxes had identifying marks on them in thick red writing; words that Rodney failed to understand.

  “Been having a clear out,” laughed Rat almost nervously upon noticing the direction of Rodney’s gaze. “Gotta take it all to recycling.”

  Rodney wasn’t interested in the least with Rat’s recycling issues, he was just trying to focus his mind on something; anything at all. He held his head back and his attention was drawn to a cuddly toy; a bright pink pig that was standing, gathering dust, on top of one of the cupboards. He wondered why Rat would have in his possession a bright pink furry pig. The faded green cupboard doors were hanging slightly ajar and Rodney thought he could just make out the outline of a… He gasped.

  “It won’t hurt too much,” reassured Rat, approaching Rodney with the needle in his hands.

  Rodney closed his eyes. He could feel his heart beating erratically. His shirt was rapidly moistening at the arm pits. It was one thing that Rat should have a cuddly pig on top of one of his cupboards but what was he doing with a shotgun inside the cupboard, almost on public display?

  “Brie, eh?” quizzed Rat calmly. “You a big cheese lover then?”

  “No! It’s nothing to do with cheese.”

  “Well, what?”

  “It doesn’t matter! Just get on with it before I change my…”

  Rat snatched the needle away. “If you are going to change your mind, you need to tell me now.”

  “Please, just get on with it!”

  “You don’t seem sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You don’t seem it.”

  “Why you got a pink pig?”

  The first prick hurt and Rodney instinctively recoiled.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, carry on.” The only thing that hurt from then on was his pride.

  Georgie Widdows

  The man they called Georgie Widdows was a black hearted, evil man. He’d spent more time in than out and nobody, not even his nearest and dearest, had any sympathy for that. He would strike a stranger for a perceived look in his eye and would cut a man for very little more than that. The pubs and drinking clubs of the manor were littered with tales of Georgie Widdows’s infamous deeds. They said that the river concealed the evidence that would have seen him rot in jail. Bundles wrapped tight and weighted with concrete and steel lay silent on the bed, their secrets untold.

  Although Georgie Widdows was no giant of a man, measuring up at about five-feet-ten, he was thick set. His shoulders and his chest were unfeasibly inflated. Rumour had it that Georgie had never once so much as uttered the word steroid, but what does rumour know? His features were dark and deliberate, his brow furrowed, and his eyes, like two holes in his head, were piercing in the extreme.

  He pulled the collar of his jacket up as if to shield his neck from the cold. But the morning was warm and he alone felt a necessity to attire himself in a jacket let alone pull the collar up tight to his ears. He took a tiny notebook from the pocket of said leather jacket and surveyed it as he flicked over the first few pages. His face was expressionless. He replaced the book in his pocket and spat on the ground.

  On entering the bookmaker’s shop on the corner, he strode straight up to an elderly West Indian who was also, by pure coincidence, dressed in a leather flying jacket. George spoke first: “Well, Gus, my old friend, fancy finding you in William Hill’s at all times of the day.”

  “Mister George,” responded the old man without committing himself.

  “You remember our little arrangement, Gus?”

  “Yes, Mister George, I know.”

  George snatched a betting slip from Gus’s hand and examined it. He squinted as he read the roughly scribbled words on it, and looked from the slip to Gus’s anxiously wrinkled face. “You must have money to burn, Gus, backing that nag!” For nothing more than a split second George Widdows appeared to smile, exposing the two gaps in his front teeth. Then the smile vanished. Indeed, if one had blinked, one would have missed it all together. “You know the rules, Gus.”

  Gus breathed in and held it. When he finally breathed out, he seemed to tremble. “Yes, Mister George, we all of us know the rules, Mister George.”

  George sniffed and raised a hand with which he wiped his face. Gus flinched as the hand was raised. George gave Gus one last meaningful look and then turned his attention to the shop as a whole. He surveyed the assembled gathering of gamblers and misfits as if making mental notes. None of them made eye contact with him. Those that had been closely watching his exchange with Gus were suddenly engrossed in studying form or merely dropped their gazes to the floor. Behind the glass partition, the clerk held her hand to her face and jotted something down as if she were totally oblivious to George’s presence. A police siren could be heard in the distance. George took out his pocket book and made a note. The clerk removed her hand from in front of her face and smiled nervously. George continued to write.

  When Joe Large left the Ink Emporium that morning, Georgie Widdows had been waiting for him outside. The notorious Joe Large could hold his own against most men but not when it came to the infinitely more notorious Georgie Widdows. The conversation, constructed mainly of words of one syllable, went something like this:

  “A word?”

  “What’s up, George?”

  “Nothin’s up. Why should there be? Eh?”

  “No reason, George.”

  The two men looked at one another as if each were trying to read the other’s thoughts. George placed an arm across Joe’s shoulders. “Just a quick word, that’s all,” he said, and lead Joe off up Ambrose Street towards the disused factory.

  “Lovely day,” George casually commented as they strolled the length of the street.

  When they reached the bright blue hoarding of the derelict site, they stopped. Joe found that he’d been backed into the rough footpath that led to the next street.

  “Been for a tattoo?” enquired George, exposing the gaps in his teeth once more, but only very briefly.

  “Been to see Rat.”

  There was silence but although George wasn’t speaking, Joe deduced that he was waiting for an answer to a question he didn’t feel the need to vocalise.

  “Just thought I’d check things out. Make sure everything was okay. You know?”

  “And are they?”

  “Yes. He needs to have a tidy up. Clear things up.”

  George backed Joe further into the overgrown pathway until they were out of sight of any traffic that happened to pass along Ambrose Street.

  “And have you got anything for me?”

  Joe shook his head slowly and quietly.

  “Has Rat got anything for me?”

  “Not yet, he says. I went there to ask him.”

  “You did?”

  “On your behalf.”

  A car passed by slowly and George glanced over his shoulder. Returning to the matter in hand, he edged closer to Joe. “On our behalf, Big Joe, on our behalf. We’re in this together remember. We’re like the three musketeers, me and you and Rat: all for one and one for all. Know what I mean, Joe?”

  “Yes,” Joe muttered.

  “Pardon, Joe.”

  “Yes.”

  “One goes down, we all go down.”

  Joe nodded. They could hear the sound of footsteps approaching along the street. The footsteps were quick and frequent as if men were running. The two eyed each other suspiciously.
They heard the cries of men shouting anxiously. One, two, three, four, maybe more shadows ran past the end of the path, completely unaware of the presence of the two men who, by now, were almost submerged in undergrowth. They heard one of the running men throw himself at the hoarding and then fall to the ground.

  “Come on.” George led Joe from the path and they turned right, in the opposite direction to the fracas which was now unfolding by the pickle factory. “I don’t care how much clearing up that idiot’s got to do, just make sure he plays by the rules or he’ll be next.”

  “Leave it with me,” said Joe Large reassuringly, although he didn’t feel reassured himself by any means.

  “And you won’t be far behind.” George turned right when they got to the junction with Bridge Road. Joe entered William Hill’s and collapsed onto a chair. There seemed to be a dull atmosphere of restraint about the shop.

  “You friend, George, jus’ been in here,” said Gus with an almost accusatory gush of words.

  “You don’t say!” growled Joe.

  A ragged figure was hunched over the roulette machine banging and clawing at the buttons after every turn. Joe pointed towards him with his thumb and looked enquiringly at Gus.

  Gus shrugged and stuck out his bottom lip. “Loser,” he said softly.

  “That his name or that what he is?”

  “That what he is.” Gus fidgeted with the buttons of his jacket. “Or that his name. Whatever you want it to be.”

  “Loser!” called Joe. “You! I’m talking to you!”

  The man lazily turned around.

  “Keep the noise down!” Joe lowered at him and the man smiled a carelessly toothless smile before spinning the wheel again.

  Joe wrote something down on a betting slip and took it to the counter. The woman behind the glass seemed rather taken aback by his selections. “Are you sure?” she asked.

  He nodded stoically.

  “I suppose it’s up to you,” she simpered and slipped the piece of paper into the top pocket of her blouse without returning the copy to Joe.

  “That’s right,” said Joe Large and he walked out of the shop and off towards the bridge with a mildly troubled expression on his globe-like face.

  Chapter Ten

  The New Batman

  I knew with complete certainty that the moment I next stepped foot in the Pig & Whistle I’d be subjected to the third degree by Buffalo and Lola and anybody else who happened to be passing by. I had contemplated the wearing of a long sleeved shirt but, finally, cut to the chase and wore a short-sleeved polo shirt, proudly displaying the new tattoo that now adorned my right forearm.

  Fortuitously, Lola was AWOL and Buffalo himself wasn’t on quite such rampant form as usual. To the point, in fact, that he eyed me as I entered but declined to strike. “Where’s Lola?” I asked.

  “He’s down Carphone Warehouse again.” Buffalo looked at me and shook his head, woefully. “What on Earth is that, Rodney?”

  Buffalo’s reaction to my new tattoo was awful. I’d expected a merciless barrage of abuse and possibly for an indeterminable period of time but the pitiless look in his eyes was far worse than anything I could have expected.

  “It’s my new tattoo. Don’t you like it? Brie wanted me to have it.”

  The look on his face didn’t change. “But, you’ve tattooed her name on yourself.”

  “So?”

  “You look like an advertisement for French cheese!”

  “Cheers, mate.”

  “Dick!” He puffed out his cheeks, expelled a load of air all in one go, and turned away from me. Horse racing was on the television and I knew that he wasn’t interested in it, but still he held his back to me as he feigned fascination in the 4.20 at Catterick.

  “I don’t see the problem,” I muttered and ordered myself a lager.

  After several seconds, Buffalo slowly wheeled around towards me like an arthritic penguin, and exhaled another huge breath of stale air into my face. “Isn’t she seeing that geezer Bothwell who drinks in the Trumpet?” he asked.

  “No, she’s seeing me.”

  “Must be seeing both of you then.”

  He was needling me and he knew it. “What the hell are you talking about? She’s seeing me!”

  “Not today though?”

  “She’s gone up the Bingo with her mum. They just buried her mum’s sister this week. It’s really upset the old girl.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, apparently her kids’ social worker found her chained up in the bedroom and all starved to death. Brie’s proper gutted.”

  “Yeah, I heard about that. Weird shit, man. Always knew those two lads of hers were nutters.” Buffalo picked up his pint, took a good mouthful, and turned his back on me. He was pretending to watch the television again. “You seen the new Batman yet?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “The trailer makes it look really good, that’s all.”

  “The trailers always make them look good, that’s what they’re for.”

  “The weather looks really dull up there.”

  “It’s always dull up North.”

  “Is that where it is? Up North?”

  I looked out of the window and noticed that it wasn’t particularly bright outside either. “What’s all this got to do with me and Brie?”

  He turned to face me again and took another swig of beer. “It’s just that when I just walked down here, I stopped at the shop to put some credit on my phone and buy some Extra Strong Mints.”

  “And?”

  He looked up at the television screen. The horses were going to the start. They were struggling to get one of them pointed in the right direction. He didn’t seem to want to race, he just wanted to go home to his stable and munch on some more straw. “Well, when I came out of the shop, I stopped to pop a mint into my mouth because I could still taste yesterday’s session on my breath.”

  “So can I,” I thought to myself as I impatiently glared at the back of his head.

  “Well, to cut a long story short, I saw that Brie coming out of the cinema with Bothwell.”

  I waited for him to turn and face me so that I could look him in the eye. When he did, I knew that he was telling the truth. My breathing became heavier and more erratic. My heart was beginning to pound. I subconsciously placed my hand over my forearm.

  “Sorry, Rod, I wish I never seen it.”

  “It’s not your fault, is it?”

  He glanced at my arm and I thought I noticed a semblance of a wry smile creep across his face. “You can get them removed these days; or turned into something else.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that, thanks!”

  “You could turn it into ‘Brien’,” he suggested helpfully.

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Well, it’s the only thing I can think of at the moment. “We’ll think of something.”

  “I’ll go back and see Rat.” I never would go back and see Rat though.

  The race began and as it progressed, the commentary became ever more manic. Buffalo was bouncing up and down and punching the air with his fist.

  “You got a bet on this or something?” I asked him.

  “No, never gamble. It’s a slippery slope.”

  The race finished and he sat down beside me. “Who won?”

  “Don’t know,” he shrugged.

  “I didn’t know you were so into the horse racing?”

  “I’m not really. I just like to get lost in the moment. You know what I mean?”

  “Not really.” I found myself drawing little circles in the spilled beer on the bar.

  A barman came over and spoiled my game by wiping the bar down. “You all right, Rod?”

  “Never better,” I told him through gritted teeth.

  “You don’t look it.”

  “Thanks,” I nodded. “Two more, please, since you’re here, Dave.”

  I deliberately spilt some beer on the bar and began to form more circles, silent
ly contemplating life’s vicissitudes and the rollercoaster of disappointment and failure on which I appeared to be bound. The silence didn’t last long though as Buffalo had found a metaphorical stick with which to beat me.

  “They were holding hands and laughing and stuff. I don’t think they’d even been to see a comedy either.”

  I slammed my fist down on the bar. “Damn it! I’m going round to Brie’s now! They can both have it!”

  Buffalo turned back to the television again and began to mutter. “She won’t be there. You know that. Let it go. There’s nothing you can do to make it better.”

  Of course, I knew he was right, but the bitter sense of betrayal was draining me of logic and I felt that I had nothing to lose and no other course of action open to me.

  Joe Large entered with a copy of the local newspaper gripped tightly in his hand. He ordered a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale and took it to a corner where he sat down alone, reading his paper, frequently glancing up to see if anybody was watching him. The first time that our eyes met, I looked away rapidly but the second time, our gazes lingered for a couple of intense moments. I wondered what he was thinking. What dark secrets he was concealing. What baggage he was hauling around with him behind that heavy beaten brow of his. He stared me down and I returned to my circles on the bar.

  As John McCririck signed off from Catterick and the Channel Four logo loomed large over Buffalo’s head, we were joined by Lola and a bag of shopping. He placed the blue plastic bag on the bar in front of me, destroying my meticulously manufactured circular patterns.

  “Evening,” he said.