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

by Paul Harris

  “No, no, it’s all in hand, Harry.”

  “Mr Growler to you, son,” corrected Growler, with an almost comical air of sternness.

  “Sorry, Mr Growler. I have a cash flow problem. I’m waiting for some paperwork to be finalised, that’s all.” Tom could sense that he was speaking far too quickly and that this was betraying his anxiety.

  Harry rolled his tongue around his mouth. “Paperwork is it?” he sighed. “The bane of my life.”

  “It’s due to be sorted very shortly. I am assured of that. I’ve been waiting for so long. You understand about red tape, particularly in the East.”

  “Red tape, you say? The East? It all sounds very mysterious,” mused Harry, and then he slammed his clenched fist down on the table. “In fact, it sounds like a crock of shit to me!”

  “No, no, Mr Growler, not at all,” stammered Tom, wiping his sweaty palms down his trousers. “I have business interests in Eastern Europe; in Prague and Vienna and Zagreb, all over really. My wife, she is from Austria, you see, and she has contacts.”

  “Your wife?” interrupted Harry. “Your wife is expecting a payment?”

  “We are expecting a payment. A huge payment. Any day, any day now.”

  Harry pressed his hands together and raised them to his lips, staring at Tom as if he were trying to read his mind, trying to ascertain where the truth lay in these great expectations of his. Tom remained quiet. His heart was racing. He gazed back at Harry and knew that he was being weighed up.

  Eventually Tom could bare the silence no longer. “I just need you to do me this one last favour,” he pleaded.

  Harry stood up and bore down on him. “You should know I don’t do favours, Mr Peddle. You should also be aware of the consequences in the unlikely event that you don’t repay my kindness.”

  “I am. I know.” They stared at one another for a few moments, Tom visibly shrinking beneath the weight of an immeasurable burden.

  Harry called out through the open door. “Bring the box!” As they waited, he sat down again and reclined in his chair. He began to speak to Tom in more amiable tones. “You know, Mr Peddle, I once knew your father?”

  Tom shrugged awkwardly. “What of it?”

  “Old Rodders may be many things but he never had much truck with gambling.” Harry smiled. “Should we summon him as a guarantor?”

  “I don’t need a guarantor. And what makes you think he’d come anyway?”

  “His darling boy?”

  Tom slowly shook his head and concerned himself that there may have been a tear of shame forming in the corner of his eye.

  “He’s always been a glutton for punishment, your old man. Always the first over the top. Always the first with the snooker cue wrapped around his swede.” Growler began to bawl with laughter as he recollected old times. “He never, ever waited for the green light, that boy. Always dived through on amber, and never looked to see what was coming the other way. Know what I mean, son?” He removed his glasses and peered at Tom. “I take it you do know what I mean? Do you know what I mean?”

  Before Tom could reply, another man, thick set and dark, entered the room. He glared at Tom with deep piercing eyes and placed a cash box on the table in front of Harry. Harry restored his reading glasses to their rightful place in front of his eyes, then took a small key from his pocket and opened the box. As he counted out notes of large denomination, the other man stood at his side with his huge arms folded across his substantial chest, constantly unsettling Tom with his fearfully resentful eyes and the way that he continually cracked his knuckles.

  Some weeks later, when he was held at knife point by a scruffy little yobbo who thought that he could intimidate him into handing over his wallet and other sundry valuables, Tom recalled this meeting with Harry Growler and his chillingly authentic henchman, and how painfully slowly those few minutes passed by, and he laughed in the face of his would be mugger. He gave him a five pound note, told him it was for entertainment value, and walked straight past him, still chuckling to himself, and into the bookmakers on Travis Road.

  Chapter Four

  Die Reise

  At long last, and after much banging of his head against various brick walls and circumnavigation of bureaucratic barricades, Jarni had finally secured his dream job. With no small thanks to the efforts and assistance of his University Professor, mentor, and friend, Doctor Fischer, he was to travel from Bratislava to the City of London where he was to be engaged by Beretta & Browning LLP of Gray’s Inn Road in a legal capacity on terms as yet to be decided.

  He visited the library and read every book that he could find about London and its history and its people. He studied street maps until he fancied that he had familiarised himself well enough with his new home. He pored over Bleak House as an introduction to the English judicial system. And he streamed the BBC news onto his laptop to keep abreast of local affairs.

  The appointment was made for several weeks hence, so rather than spending that time pacing up and down various faculty corridors, kicking empty beer cans through the park, and generally driving himself out of his mind with impatience and fervent anticipation, Jarni decided on the trip of a lifetime. He would cross Europe by land, mostly by train, meeting new people at every station, and at each border crossing, a new adventure would unfold before him. Until, eventually, he would arrive at Waterloo Station in London, exhausted, enlightened, and forever changed. And, once there, he would make his fortune and his people at home in Slovakia would be rightly proud of him.

  Travelling by train was not nearly as glamorous as Jarni had imagined. The endless panorama of empty fields, power lines, and railway embankments was only infrequently broken by the towering sight of an Austrian mountain range or a Bavarian office block. The train hurtled through the countryside, racing alongside the great Danube, cutting corners, stopping for nothing, at a crashing rhythm that brought down lethargy and rendered Jarni asleep for most of the first leg of his journey.

  He was glad that he had agreed to visit a friend and compatriot of Doctor Fischer’s at the Doctor’s behest, thus enabling him to break up the first part of his journey. He alighted at Salzburg and felt immediately liberated, stretching his legs as he paced the concourse, his suitcases in a heap besides the window of the sandwich shop. He peered into the shop at the pastries on display but resisted temptation. He checked the screen on his mobile phone but the call he had been expecting had not yet come. He gazed back up the escalators to the platforms above and admired the enormous transparent roof of the station as it curved and wrapped itself around the feeble steel structure. Jarni wondered what it was made from. It could not possibly be glass. As he pondered this, his phone rang and he realised that he was still holding it limply in his hand.

  It was Doctor Fischer’s friend, Doctor Erasmus. He was here at the station looking for Jarni. Jarni told him that he was waiting outside Le Crobag. This was all that Doctor Erasmus needed to know. The conversation was terminated and, in barely any time at all, the two men were shaking hands. Doctor Fischer had told Jarni that Erasmus needed a letter delivering by hand to London and Jarni had willingly agreed to this task. The Doctor had also told Jarni that Doctor Erasmus was a lawyer of some great repute and, upon meeting him, Jarni had no doubt whatever that this was very much the case.

  Doctor Erasmus was attired most soberly and had an imposing but, at the same time, modest disposition. He smiled warmly at Jarni as they shook hands. “Have you eaten?”

  Jarni shook his head. “But I’m not so hungry.”

  “Please, I insist,” and the older man, as important as he was, collected Jarni’s luggage and led him to a small restaurant near the station entrance.

  “I must apologise,” he laughed as they were seated, “I would have liked to have shown you far more hospitality. A couple of days perhaps? Have you been to Salzburg before?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “It is wonderful.”

  Jarni nodded as he had no doubt that it would have been quite wond
erful had that hospitality been, indeed, forthcoming.

  “But, unfortunately,” explained Erasmus as he sliced into a parcel of flaky pastry, “I leave for Graz immediately.” He paused as he took a mouthful of food and looked at Jarni. “Have you been to Graz?”

  “No, Sir, Vienna only.”

  Erasmus slowly shook his head. “Shame. Quite wonderful.” He took another mouthful and Jarni sipped his coffee. “I have very important business there which, I am sorry to say, cannot be avoided.” He took a leather wallet from his inside pocket and produced from it a note which he carefully laid on the table beside the bill. He stood up. “I’m sorry, my young friend, there can be no delay.”

  “Doctor Fischer said that you had a letter that you wished me to deliver for you.”

  “Damn it! I nearly forgot.” He took a sealed envelope from the same pocket from which he had lately produced his wallet. He passed it over the table to Jarni. “It must be delivered by hand, you understand?”

  Jarni nodded.

  “In person, by you, to the person whose name you will find on the envelope along with the address.”

  Once more, Jarni nodded.

  “It is of the gravest importance to someone,” emphasised Erasmus.

  “You can rely on me, Sir,” Jarni said reassuringly.

  Doctor Erasmus smiled. “I know. Have a good time in London.” They shook hands again as they parted company.

  “Thank you, Sir, and I hope you will enjoy Graz.”

  “Oh yes, indeed,” beamed the lawyer, “It is quite wonderful this time of year.”

  By the time the train left Munich, Jarni was fast asleep again. Except for the gloomy station buildings and the residential blocks of the Munich suburbs, the journey passed him by as his subconscious imagination ensconced him in a world of legislative ponderings and court cases that were always, and without exception, concluded for the common good. Always for the good. He swayed from side to side with the motion of the railway carriage, his neck whipping his head from left to right until, as the guard was announcing their approach to Stuttgart Station, his head collided with the glass of the window. He awoke drowsily. Through the window he could see the beginning of yet another urban sprawl. He began to collect himself as his consciousness was revived. He shuffled in his seat, adjusted his trousers, and became aware of a man sitting opposite him.

  The man was peering back at him from beneath thick black eyebrows. He was unshaven and had a deep scar running down the side of his face. Jarni noticed that he had something in his hands. He was turning it around and around between his fingers and then stood it upright on the table between himself and Jarni. It was Jarni’s lighter; the gold one that Doctor Fischer had given him at Bratislava Station as a parting gift. It was engraved with Jarni’s name. As the stranger recognised the look of suspicion on Jarni’s face, he smiled. The smile looked pained and Jarni didn’t think that this was a man who smiled very often.

  “How did you get that?” he asked of the stranger, and instinctively began to check his pockets.

  “You must have left it on the table when you nodded off. Here.” The stranger handed the lighter to Jarni who was absolutely positive that he had not left his lighter on the table nor would he ever do such a thing. He narrowed his eyes and examined the stranger’s face in an effort to seek the truth from his expression. The stranger continued to smile back at him without any sign of guilt or remorse. As Jarni racked his brains and sought clarity of memory, he wondered if he could actually remember putting the lighter back in his pocket. Did he inadvertently fall asleep whilst his valuable gold lighter lay on the table in full view of any random stranger with a wandering eye and a sticky finger? An element of doubt entered his mind; a fatal element of doubt. “You’re lucky,” said the stranger, still smiling wryly, “it could so very easily have been taken. There are many thieves among us.”

  Jarni relaxed a little, exhaled, and said, “Thank you.”

  The stranger held out his hand and Jarni took it. The stranger’s handshake was firm, too firm. Jarni thought that he might even break one of his fingers. “Jarni Bosko,” he said and hurriedly withdrew his hand.

  “Lazlo,” said the stranger, “Cak Lazlo. Pleased to meet you, Jarni Bosko. Where are you from and where do you travel to?”

  “I am from Slovakia, Bratislava. I am travelling to London to begin work there.”

  “Hmm.” Lazlo seemed pleased with Jarni’s response. “I too travel to London to seek my fortune.” He laughed insincerely. “Perhaps we can be travelling companions?”

  This proposition somehow made Jarni feel uncomfortable. He had his route planned and was not inclined to deviate from it. What’s more, he did not want this man to lead him into trouble, and this man had trouble clearly inscribed into the rough features of his face. Lazlo’s deep dark searching gaze made Jarni almost choke as he swallowed.

  “I have my route planned. I must change trains at Stuttgart.”

  “Of course,” assured Cak, “we must change at Stuttgart.”

  Jarni squirmed a little. “And then I go on to Cologne and Brussels.”

  Lazlo laughed again and gently took the lighter from Jarni’s hand where it had been resting. “No, no,” he whispered. “We go to Paris and Amiens and then onto Calais.”

  Jarni sighed and slowly shook his head. He resolved to stand his ground but he had always been, since a child, far too easily persuaded.

  “We must see the Eiffel Tower,” continued his new friend, “just once in our lives, right? What is in Brussels? A little boy pissing? Who wants to see a little boy pissing?”

  They had a brief sighting of the very peak of the Eiffel Tower as it hovered quite majestically on the horizon as they entered Gare de L’est where their train terminated. That is all that they would ever see of it. As they took the short walk to Gare du Nord in order to change trains once more, Jarni scanned the gaps between the rooftops and office blocks in an attempt to get another glimpse of the great monument, but without success.

  Cak marched along as if he were on a military mission. Jarni was amazed that he had travelled so far with only a modest haversack for luggage. Meanwhile, he himself, had a suitcase in either hand and a back pack slung around his shoulders, all three of which were incredibly heavy. He faltered as he negotiated the busy city street. Cak’s head of black hair was disappearing into the distance as he surged onwards through the crowds, without any regard whatever for oncoming pedestrian traffic.

  Eventually, Cak looked back over his shoulder and, noticing that Jarni was nowhere to be seen, stopped outside a bank to wait for him. When Jarni arrived at the bank, he dropped his cases down on the pavement and leant against a stone sill to catch his breath. “Can we not stop?” he pleaded. “We could visit the Eiffel Tower and see it properly. We could stay overnight. Just one night. I have money for a hostel. We could visit the Louvre.”

  “We must keep going,” demanded Cak. “We must.”

  “But, why?”

  “We can stop in Amiens tonight. We have somewhere to stay there. We can stop for as long as you want to. We have people there. Good people. Our people. People like us.”

  With their plan agreed upon, although far from unanimously, Cak began to march on once more. Jarni noticed that he appeared to have developed a slight limp during the course of their short walk. He walked with the gait of a much older man, a man who had all but run out of walking, but pushed and forced himself on in order to reach his destiny as quickly as he possibly could. His clothes were old and worn. His boots were scuffed and scratched and were coming unstitched at the seams. There was a hole the size of a one Euro coin in the elbow of his military-style jacket.

  Jarni followed him and, as they took a right hand turn, he saw the sign for Gare du Nord. He wondered what Cak had meant when he referred to “people like us” and he wondered why Cak assumed that the two of them were so alike. Jarni, for his part, did not believe that he had anything in common with his new travelling companion at all except, p
erhaps, a shared goal, to reach London and seek out their fortunes.

  One of the suitcases slipped from his grip as they entered the station concourse. He shook his hand to relieve the stiffness in his fingers. He had embarked upon the journey of a lifetime but now he was embroiled in a mad dash across Europe that was not only uncomfortable but was almost painful. He dropped the second case at his feet and rubbed both of his hands together, encouraging the blood to flow through his fingers properly, as it once had.

  He began to wish that he had hung on in Bratislava, haunting the faculty corridors and kicking cans around the park. He could easily have found a cheap last-minute flight to London. All of this could so easily have been avoided. But, then, what of Doctor Erasmus’s letter? Erasmus needed him in Salzburg and now, for some bizarre reason, Lazlo wanted him in Amiens. He almost felt as if he were the victim of an abduction. He almost, maybe very slightly, was in fear of Cak Lazlo.

  He asked himself why they had to keep on moving at such a ferocious pace. But, he never heard the reply, otherwise he may well have jumped on the first train back to Stuttgart. The ability to move quickly is a necessity, and the necessity to move quickly is an occupational hazard in the careers of thieves, extortionists, robbers and murderers.

  The New Town Heroes

  Two bicycles were left leaning together rather haphazardly against a shop window. Every so often, they would lean yet more haphazardly and slightly more horizontally as their chunky rubber tyres slid a couple of more millimetres further into the footpath until pedestrians were forced to take a detour around them. One of the bicycles had a Tesco bag tied around its handlebars, the other a small pirate flag hanging from its crossbar.

  Inside the shop, a young woman was purchasing copious amounts of chocolate bars. She was having some degree of difficulty in confirming her final selection. Although she had a penchant for Toffee Crisp, there were other products on sale at a far more favourable price. She complained to the shopkeeper. “Why’s the Toffee Crisp ten pence dearer than the Crunchie?” The shopkeeper shrugged and smiled sympathetically. The woman seemed agitated and perplexed. She took a handful of Lion Bars from the display and added them to the pile of chocolate bars next to the till. The shopkeeper began scanning barcodes. “Hold on,” said the woman, and she put two Lion Bars back on the shelf and replaced them with one Picnic and one Double Decker. Although the sympathetic smile never faltered on the shopkeepers face, it was clear that the young lady was driving him to a place somewhere near to impatience.