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

by Paul Harris

  “Bloody typical, that is!” snapped Rodney as he snatched his glass from Sol and led him to a quiet corner next to a raging log fire where they sank, side by side, into a deep leather settee. There were two leather armchairs opposite them and all three pieces of furniture were littered with cushions. Rodney placed his glass on the table and picked up a menu. He began to peruse it, purely because he had nothing to say. He waited for Sol to open the conversation but he was disappearing into the soft upholstery and had to wriggle to force himself upright.

  “Nice place,” said Sol, and began to sink again.

  Rodney grunted, as if to say, “You’ll have to try harder than that.”

  As he nonchalantly flicked through the menu, he noted, with some degree of awe, how so many dishes were served with a Stilton sauce. Amazingly, everything was homemade, even though he was sure that he’d seen a delivery truck parked by the back doors as he walked across the car park. What’s more, the menu claimed, all of their produce was locally sourced, even the salmon fishcakes (with a Stilton sauce). “They must have cleaned the Thames up then,” he sarcastically muttered to himself.

  “What?”

  Rodney looked at Sol and shook his head.

  “I thought you said something.”

  “No.”

  Sol wriggled in his seat again. Rodney felt himself becoming uncomfortable too. The fire, which he himself had chosen to sit beside, was radiating a tremendous amount of heat. He felt himself sweating and his jeans beginning to cling to the leather which squeaked when he moved. It was something akin to a Dickensian Christmas scene, as their faces glowed bright red, the flames reflecting in the light drizzle of sweat emanating from their brows and their flesh slowly roasting. The settee squelched as Sol stood up to go to the toilet.

  “Back in a moment,” he said. “Nature calls.”

  Rodney noticed a damp patch where his friend had been sitting. He picked up a beer mat and began to fan his face with it as he took stock of his surroundings. There was the peculiar spectacle of a mirror hanging above the fireplace that bore no cracks at all. Rodney wondered if there was also an undamaged mirror hanging in the toilets, and made a mental note to ask Sol about it upon his return. A standard lamp stood on a shelf in an alcove illuminating a large framed print of a fox hunting scene.

  The ancient oak beams that ran through the ceiling had recently been stripped of years of thickly coated paint in order to reveal their rotting authenticity. Brick arches were embedded into the walls for nothing more than decoration. A green, back-lit “emergency exit” sign spoiled the old world charm of the place but, he had to concede, provided invaluable information. Why else would it occur to one to head to the door in the event that a raging inferno suddenly engulfed table number six?

  As Rodney gazed blankly at the sign, a man entered through the door below it, looking the very image of Anthony Hopkins’s 1982 portrayal of Quasi Modo. “Inbreeding,” thought Rodney, “it’s got to be.” The man could barely see over the oak panelled bar as he waited to be served, propping himself up on the wrought iron footrest. A jar of mixed olives obscured him from the view of the barmaid who was deeply engaged in conversation with one of the waitresses regarding a point of etiquette, or lack of it. They simultaneously turned to look at Rodney and the waitress pitifully shook her head at him. Rodney smiled and began to hum along with the background music. Although slightly disappointed that there was no juke box, he took great solace in the fact that Adele was being piped into the searing heat like audible diazepam.

  As the little man with unusual features finally got served, Sol returned and sat down again. Rodney began to laugh out loud. “What’s up now?” asked Sol.

  “I was just thinking that Buffalo wouldn’t half be doing some moaning about the price of a pint in here.”

  “Buffalo moans about anything. He’s worse than you.”

  Rodney cast him a sideways glance. “You telling me you like it here?”

  “Yes, it’s nice. It makes for a pleasant change.”

  “It’s like Royston Vasey. ‘A local pub for local people.’” Rodney couldn’t tell whether Sol laughed or sniffed, but some kind of sound came out of his nose. Sol took a handkerchief from his pocket which suggested to Rodney that it had only been a sniff.

  “Talking of sniff,” said Rodney, “you still on the gear?”

  “How long ago you wanna go back, Rod? We weren’t even talking about sniff. We weren’t talking about anything at all as a matter of fact. I see you’re still the great conversationalist.”

  “It takes two to tango.”

  “But it only takes one to stare at the walls and the mirrors and the floor all night.”

  “That reminds me…” But Rodney had forgotten what it had reminded him about and duly returned to staring at the walls in silence.

  A party of middle-aged professional women caught his eye and he stared unforgivingly at them as they ate a meal of chicken supreme with Stilton sauce. He watched as they ate and drank with their little fingers affectedly raised in the air. Their eyes never met as they spoke to one another, and they shot disparaging glances at the waitress as she fussed around them. Each of them, in turn, found fault with their meal and each of them took it upon themselves as the gravest of obligations to air their grievances as loudly as they possibly could. But, their ruddy complexions and unnaturally proportioned facial features belied their pretensions and revealed them as everyday drunks which gave Rodney enormous satisfaction.

  At another table, an elderly couple were enjoying a last meal together like a pair of condemned convicts. They didn’t yet know that it was their last meal together, but each suspected that it was, although neither suggested it. When they finished eating, they helped one another to their feet, and Rodney watched as they made the hazardous journey from table to door. Every one of the fifteen feet was excruciating for them. They took a step at a time, clinging to each other for support, before breaking off for a moment to recompose themselves.

  “You know, I dread getting old like that. Not being able to get about,” Rodney suddenly announced, and, in so doing, broke his silence.

  “The way you’re going you won’t have to worry about that,” laughed Sol facetiously.

  “Don’t you worry about it? You and me: we won’t have anybody to prop us up or to keep us from falling.”

  “I don’t think about it. I don’t think about stuff the way you do. I live for now instead of worrying about what may or may not happen.”

  “But, you’ve got to consider your future. You have to plan, don’t you?”

  “When you worry about the future, how can you enjoy what’s happening now? Those simple little pleasures, those little moments of joy, the first time you laugh at something new?”

  Rodney sighed. He knew very well that Sol planned for the future more than anybody else he knew, and that is what gave him the comfort of being so flippant about the subject.

  The elderly couple paused at the door, unable to negotiate their departure. A waitress rushed over and held the door open for them. Meanwhile, the old man, noting the first faint spots of rain landing on the path outside, began a wrestling match with his coat; one that he was abjectly losing. The garment had him in a half nelson and, before long, was beginning to engage him in an unbreakable headlock, from which there could only be submission. Rodney stood up to help, but realised that any efforts he made would be futile. He sat down again. “I wish I had the magic powers to make them young again.”

  “How do you know they’d want to be young again? Perhaps they wouldn’t want it. Did you consider that they might be happy now; happier than ever?”

  “Everybody wants to be young again!” Rodney asserted with confidence.

  “Really? Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why though, Rod?”

  “I could put all the mistakes right; fill in the gaps; make sure some things never happened and make sure other things did.”

  “What makes you think that you’
d do things differently if you were given the chance? You’d still be the same person, with the same impulses and frailties.”

  As Sol followed Rodney’s gaze, who was watching the elderly couple finally depart the premises, his attention was drawn elsewhere. “For instance,” he said, “you see those coat hooks up there, next to the door?”

  “What about them?”

  “Years ago, we’d have gone through the pockets. Getting older can be a good thing. See?”

  Rodney scanned the row of hooks and the jackets and coats hanging from them. “There’s some nice clobber up there,” he commented with his tongue figuratively in his cheek. “We’d have had the coats away as well.” Then he laughed. “I particularly like that little tweed number on the right.”

  “Yeah, we’d probably have had the hooks too,” smiled Sol. “They’d have gone well in our flat.”

  “Oh yeah, in the cloakroom?”

  “On the back of the toilet door?”

  “We’d have had to take the dartboard down.”

  “Over there.” Sol nodded towards the bar. “We’d have had that jar of pistachios as well.”

  “No, we wouldn’t,” said Rodney, “I don’t like pistachios.”

  “Of course you don’t. What was I thinking?”

  “Well, I can’t help what I like and what I don’t like.”

  Rodney eyed the jars of olives and pistachios with disdain. The staff were busy behind the bar, serving more wine than beer, and more coffee than wine. “Is this what they call a gastropub?”

  “I guess it must be.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “It’s what the people want. You sound old, by the way. You sound just like Buffalo, moaning about progress.”

  “Progress!” Rodney snorted. “No one talks to each other anymore.”

  “You never used to talk to anyone anyway!”

  Rodney busied himself by examining his surroundings again. He felt as though he had been transported onto an alien spaceship full of leather and oak. “I’m just a little shy.”

  “We had some good times back then,” mused Sol with a grand air of nostalgia. He thoughtfully swirled the last of his beer around in his glass. “You know? When we shared that flat.”

  “And some bad times,” snapped Rodney with his characteristic antipathy towards any sense of nostalgia whatsoever.

  “Your glass is always half empty, Rod.”

  “No, it’s completely empty.” He held the empty vessel up in his hand.

  “You know perfectly well what I mean. You’re never satisfied. What bad times did we have?

  “Well, let me think.” Rodney began to scratch his chin and frown mockingly. “What about when the landlord kept changing the locks and leaving us stood outside in the rain?”

  “Because we didn’t pay the rent.”

  “What about when him and his goons beat the shit out of me?”

  Sol tapped his glass on the table in exasperation. “You can’t go through life dwelling on the negative, Rod. What about the drugs and the girls. ‘Birds, booze and buses’ and all that?”

  “Where did that all get us though?” Rodney snatched Sol’s empty glass from his hand and headed to the bar for some more drinks.

  “Here!” Sol called out after him. “And here’s not too shabby at all, is it?” He looked at the damp patch where Rodney had been sitting and then to the fire crackling in the hearth. The fox hunting picture caught his eye for the first time. Feeling extremely satisfied with life, he sat back and let the soft upholstery swallow him up.

  “It’s crap!” spat Rodney, over Sol’s shoulder, when he returned with two freshly poured beers. In so expressing himself, he rather spoiled Sol’s self-induced feeling of complacency.

  “What were you expecting, Rod? What did you want?”

  “I never knew what I wanted back then.” He gazed into the fire and Sol watched him intently as the flames reflected in his eyes and the sweat continued to glisten on his brow. Rodney’s consciousness seemed to have disappeared into the heat; drifted up the chimney with the smoke. “But, I think I do now,” he faltered, before, once more, removing himself from the conversation.

  Sol took a mouthful of his drink and peered over the rim of his glass at his friend. “And?” he prompted.

  Rodney seemed deep in though and unusually pensive. He licked his lips. “Remember Moke? I told you about her. I went to see her a couple of weeks ago.”

  “And?”

  “I realised how much I miss her, even after all these years. I’ve been waiting for her to call me, but she hasn’t.”

  “Have you tried calling her?”

  “No.” Rodney’s voice had trailed off into little more than a whisper.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not sure if she’d want me to.”

  “If you called her, you’d know, and you wouldn’t be sitting here gazing into the flames wondering.”

  Rod tore his eyes away from the fire and looked Sol squarely in the face but said nothing.

  “Life’s too short for those sort of games, Rod.” Sol paused. Another subject had sprung into his mind and he was unsure how to attack it. After a couple of seconds consideration, he decided to throw himself at it. “Talking of longevity, or the lack of it, what’s the news on the heart?”

  Rodney scowled at him. “How did you know?”

  “People are concerned. Your friends, you know?”

  “It’s nothing for anybody to be concerned about!” snapped Rodney angrily. “It’s nothing! People should mind their own business. They gave me tablets and everything’s fine.”

  “Should you be drinking?”

  Rodney’s face reddened even further. Flames still seemed to be dancing in his eyes even though he was no longer looking in the direction of the fireplace. Sol was relieved when a commotion broke the tension and Rodney’s attention was attracted by the party of middle-aged professional women who had now finished their meals. They were preparing to leave and were making a hugely theatrical performance of grabbing their coats from the hooks and putting them on. It was like Swan Lake without the grace; without any grace at all. The manager was profusely offering his apologies for the state of the chicken supreme.

  “I wonder why they have to make such a hullabaloo about everything?” wondered Sol.

  “It’s the only way they can get any attention anymore.”

  Eventually, they left. The manager cheerfully waved them through the door and, as he turned his back on them, Rodney and Sol had to employ absolutely no lip-reading skills whatsoever to discern the word “Bitches” discretely leaving his mouth.

  “Do you remember Monique?” asked Sol.

  “No. Is that why we’re here? You got something on your mind?”

  “No, I was more concerned about your health.”

  “Look, I told you…” Rodney’s eyes began to flash with anger again, but Sol cut him off.

  “But, I thought since we are here…” he paused. “You do remember her, don’t you?”

  “I can’t honestly say that I do.”

  “Remember that party we had back in the day? When Roger kicked us out of the flat?”

  “Vaguely. I was clattered that night.” Rodney looked with curiosity into Sol’s eyes. “That French girl with the long hair?”

  Sol nodded.

  “The one that you were supposed to go off to France to marry?”

  Sol guiltily cleared his throat but said nothing.

  “The one who’s hair was the same colour as her car, and the colour of her car weren’t all that?”

  “There was nothing wrong with the colour of her hair.”

  “It was the colour of cold Irn Bru.”

  Sol screwed up his face. “No, it wasn’t. Anyway, she’s in town. She called me and she’s got problems.”

  “Ain’t we all?” remarked Rodney rather too dismissively.

  “I knew that you’d understand.”

  “What’s it got to do with me?”


  “Advice, that’s all.”

  A waitress approached them and asked if they wanted to order food. Rodney was about to engage her in conversation regarding the inadequacies of the chicken supreme but, in his determination to tell his story, Sol waved her away with a polite, but adamant, “No, thank you.”

  “See, she was set to marry this English geezer but he got topped on their way over here. So, she came over anyway, to go to the funeral and all that. The family didn’t want to know her. Didn’t exactly extend the hand of friendship to her.”

  Rodney leapt in with words of empathy that, Sol noted, were strangely out of character. “I suppose they had to deal with their own grief.”

  “Whatever. But they shunned her and left her with nowhere to stay.” Sol paused, and looked at Rodney for a clue.

  Rodney looked back at him with exactly the same expression. “That’s a sad story, but what?”

  “Well, I was going to offer to put her up for a bit.”

  “Well, do that then. What’s the problem? Why are you asking me about it?”

  “The thing is, I can’t help feeling that I’ve got unfinished business with her. You know? Do you think that would be wrong?”

  Rodney spat a mouthful of beer back into his glass. “Of course it’d be wrong!” he spluttered. “While she’s still in mourning? She’s alone and vulnerable. You need to have a word with yourself mate, you really do!”

  “I don’t mean… I don’t know what I mean. Of course, I can wait.”

  “You can? That’s very noble of you. Can you wait until the mascara stops dribbling down her face? Or is life just too damned short to play those sort of games, Sol?”

  “What are you so touchy about?”

  Rodney finished his pint. “We’re just both running around in endless circles. I can see that, but you can’t.”

  “But neither of us can escape the past, can we Rod?”

  Rodney wriggled uncomfortably against the leather settee. He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and stood up. “No,” he said. “I’ll catch you later.” He limped towards the door rubbing his left knee which had seized up due to contortion deep within the upholstery.