Die Hard Mod
Page 4
‘C’ mon boss, remember the shipyard workers who built the Titanic… you Belfast boys are made of pure grit, at least that’s what my old man never tired of telling me, even though I heard from my uncle that he was always sneaking off to the bookies when he should have been grafting.’
Steve chuckled as he reached for his mug of tea.
‘Well no worries on that front, mate …wouldn’t know one end of a horse from another but I’ve done plenty of casual labouring in my time… not too casual though, honest.’
‘Glad to hear it, boss… now get into those work clothes that I’ve left out for you… gotta leave in ten minutes.’
The job was in Brunswick Square, only a few minutes walk from Bobby’s flat. They both grabbed a takeaway bacon sandwich and coffee on the way and were there in good time for the eight ‘o clock start.
With bright sunshine and the vivid blueness of the sea and the sky enhancing the scene, Steve was impressed with the location. The elegant Regency terraces exuded class and seemed to him to be every bit as exotic as anything he imagined the Mediterranean might have to offer. It felt like a far cry from the North Belfast backstreet that he’d run away from.
The building was being renovated by a local property developer whose long-term aim was to turn it into his own luxury home. In the seventies, the place had been converted into flats and many of the grand rooms had been fitted with lower ceilings to make them easier and cheaper to heat.
Steve’s first task was to help Bobby rip the ceilings down on the top floor to reveal the original features. It was a filthy job and the pair wore protective masks to stop them choking on the dust.
Steve was true to his word about being a grafter, eager to prove to Bobby that his faith in him was justified. They worked without a break until one o’clock when Bobby offered to do the day’s sandwich run.
‘I fancy a cheese and ham baguette myself, boss. Yourself?’
‘Aye, that’ll do rightly for me too. A can o’ Coke and a Mars Bar too, please.’
While Bobby was away sorting out their lunch, Steve rested himself against the wall on the hallway outside the room they were gutting. He liked the feeling of knowing that the lunch he was about to devour was well-earned. An Ulster Presbyterian work ethic had been drummed into him since childhood and the rebellious streak that he’d developed from adolescence onwards had done little to shake off the conditioning.
Steve was lightly dozing when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs and shouted a greeting to Bobby.
‘I tell ye what, mate… I’m fuckin’ starvin’… hope them baguettes are king-sized bastards …’
Steve rubbed his dirty hands against his jeans in anticipation but when he looked up, it wasn’t Bobby standing at the top of the stairs. It was a vision of Mod elegance that made him gasp in admiration.
Facially, the guy resembled a younger Clint Eastwood, with small piercing eyes but with a sharper haircut that anything Steve had ever seen on Clint. His dark blue mohair suit looked like it had been painted onto his slim athletic frame and consisted of a three-button box jacket with one inch side vents and tight, narrow trousers tapering onto an immaculate pair of black Cuban heels. The ensemble was completed by a silk paisley shirt with button-down collars.
Steve felt like giving him a round of applause but instead, nervously blurted out a compliment.
‘Hey man, really dig the threads!’
The be-suited guy walked slowly came forward with a forced-looking smile and Steve quickly stood up to greet him. He held out his hand for Steve to shake.
‘I’m Anthony Cubitt.’
‘Hi Anthony, I’m Steve …just been guttin’ one of the rooms up here. I’m guessin’ this is your gaff, then?’
As Steve talked he could feel Cubitt’s grip on his hand get tighter. He stared straight into Steve’s eyes, unblinkingly.
‘Listen, bogtrotter. I don’t give a damn what your name is or what unskilled task you’re undertaking. Understand this. Don’t ever address me in that vulgar manner again. In fact, don’t assume that you are in a position to converse with me in any way whatsoever. Just get on with whatever inconsequential drudgery you’re involved in and keep your mouth shut when I’m around. As far as I’m concerned, the likes of you are scum.’
The bone-crushing grip on Steve’s hand kept intensifying until his eyes watered. Looking pleadingly into Cubitt’s icy-blue eyes, Steve was in little doubt that the man was psychotic. He was on the verge of crying out in pain when Bobby’s appearance on the scene disturbed Cubitt’s concentration and he released Steve’s hand. Without a word, Cubitt turned around, brushed past Bobby as if he wasn’t there and walked straight down the stairs.
When he was sure Cubitt was out of earshot, Bobby asked Steve what had occurred.
‘Please boss, don’t tell me that you said something to annoy the Ace Face.’
‘Ace Face? What are ye on about? And what’s the crack with all that posh lingo he comes out with?’
‘Ace Face is the nickname that the boys came up with ‘cos of the Mod clobber. Not that we’d ever let him get wind of that. The snooty voice is just something that he’s worked on ‘cos I’ve heard on good authority that his dad was a street-cleaner from Worthing.’
‘But he has to be gay, yeah?’ said Steve. ‘That theatrical manner ‘n all… camp as fuck eh?’
Bobby snorted. ‘Don’t you fucking believe it. He’s a proper shag merchant but only with industrial strength condoms apparently. He’s a hygiene freak on top of everything else. But the point is, boss, I know you’re enjoying the novelty of being in groovy, happening Brighton-by-the-sea but there’s some dark stuff that can go on in this town that would make that mugging the other night look like a picnic… believe me, you really don’t want to get on the wrong side of Anthony Cubitt.’
Steve laughed nervously.
‘C’mon Bobby, I know he seemed like a bit of a nutter ‘n all but surely it’s just a bit of an act… tryin’ to cultivate an image for himself or somethin’.’
‘Okay, I’ll spell it out for you, boss. He’s done time for GBH and manslaughter, there seems to be an unfortunate tendency for his business rivals to have nasty unexplained accidents and the last judge to send him down described him as evil incarnate. Yeah, he’s got an image alright.’
12
The rest of the week passed without incident at Brunswick Square and there was no sign of Cubitt as Steve and Bobby kept up their work-rate and made a good impression on the foreman. On Friday afternoon at knocking-off time, Steve was handed £300 in twenties and tens.
‘Right, there’s only one thing for it on a Friday afternoon at five’ said Steve as he handed Bobby a fifty for the week’s rent. ‘C’mon, let’s go and get fuckin’ blocked!’
Bobby shook his head.
‘Steady on, boss. I’d normally be right with you but tonight’s different. We should go home, get washed and fed and then prepare ourselves for a quality night out.’
‘Yer gettin’ me excited here, Bobby. What’s so special about tonight that I have to delay the gratification of gettin’ a lovely pint o’ stout down my neck?’
‘Don’t wanna spoil the surprise, boss. C’mon, let’s get out of this filthy clobber and show the women of Brighton how well we can scrub up.’
Steve had a blue and white striped t-shirt identical to one that he’d seen worn by Brian Jones from The Rolling Stones in a 1965 photo. He ironed the creases out and when he pulled on his white Levis and a pair of tan desert boots to complete the outfit, he went to look at himself in the full-length mirror in the bathroom. As he fussed with his hair, he wasn’t under any illusions that he was devastatingly handsome but he still thought he looked pretty sharp.
‘That’ll do rightly,’ said Steve, winking at his reflection. Bobby knocked at the bathroom door.
‘Oi, Belfast boy! Time to get a move on.’
13
It was a mild evening and the pair took a slow stroll along Upper North Street and the
n onto Clifton Terrace where Bobby wanted to show Steve what were, for his money, the most desirable houses in Brighton.
‘This is where all the swanky merchants would have lived in Victorian times, boss. Just imagine having your bedroom on the top floor of one of these gaffs… views over the town and across the sea.’
Steve could smell lavender on the breeze from the residents’ private park across the road from where they were walking.
‘Yeah, there’s bigger and more expensive houses all over the town but there’s just something about this place… it’s peaceful …ya know what I mean, boss?’
Steve tried picturing himself living somewhere like Clifton Terrace with a family of his own. It was a sweet dream but he felt slightly pathetic when he caught himself envisaging Jeanie as being part of it.
‘Never mind how the other half lives Bobby, I’m dyin’ o’ thirst here. Where’s this pub ye reckon I’ll like, then?’
‘Five minutes away, boss…almost there.’
14
Steve knew that the Heart and Hand was his kind of boozer from the moment he walked in. It looked like somebody’s 1970s living room with fading décor to match, Louie Louie by The Kingsmen was on the jukebox and the place was packed with indie kids, ageing rockers and a smattering of Mods. He also noticed a sufficient quota of females to reassure him that it wasn’t one of those male-dominated pubs where the atmosphere would be getting more testosterone-charged and lairy as last orders approached.
Bobby went to the bar and came back with two pints of Harvey’s.
‘So what’s this gear you’re expecting me to drink, then? Looks like cold tea with a bit o’ froth on top.’
‘Don’t be a philistine, Belfast boy. This stuff is Sussex nectar… I can’t take you on a night out in Brighton without you sampling some of the local ale.’
Steve took a sup while eyeing Bobby suspiciously.
‘Well, I guess its just about drinkable… cheers mate.’
At the table next to the jukebox, a trendy-looking young couple were beckoning Bobby to join them.
‘They’re okay, boss,’ Bobby whispered as they walked over. ‘… more acquaintances than friends but at least we’ve got a seat now.’
Bobby introduced the couple to Steve.
‘Alright there Josh, how’s it going? Nice to meet ye, Emily.’
Steve got a cold fish handshake from Josh and a faint, indifferent smile from Emily.
For the next couple of rounds, Steve found himself left out of the conversation as the pair prattled on to Bobby about their latest partying exploits and various Brighton scenesters that he’d never heard of while taking turns to go to the toilet more often than Steve thought was usually necessary.
‘Ah, I geddit,’ he thought. ‘They’re on the oul’ devil’s dandruff… instant arsehole powder.’
When it was his turn to get a round in, Steve quickly necked a double Jamesons at the bar before returning with pints for himself and Bobby and Tuacas for Josh and Emily, which were accepted without thanks.
Buoyed by booze and tired of being ignored, Steve decided that it was down to him to make the effort.
‘So how do you folk know Bobby, then?’
With eyes that seemed to be scanning the pub to see if there was anyone more cool to talk to, Josh replied in a bored monotone.
‘Just from being around clubs… I’ve DJ-ed at a couple of nights when Bobby’s band were doing a set.’
‘Nice one, mate. You DJ full-time then?’
Josh rolled his eyes.
‘You’ll find that DJ-ing in Brighton is usually a sideline except for the lucky few. I’ve got a day-job as a web designer. Work’s a bit scarce in Brighton so we’re both commuting to London. Means getting up at six every morning but the money’s good.’
‘Don’t know if I’d fancy that, Josh. Haulin’ yer arse up there every mornin’ with all them sour-faced gits on the train and I bet ye don’t get back til about nine at night. No harm to ye but I couldn’t be arsed with all that caper.’
The couple exchanged an embarrassed look. Emily piped up defensively.
‘Well it works for us. We’ve got a great flat in Kemp Town with a sea view and the quality of life in Brighton is just fab. Really creative vibe here and everyone’s so chilled.’
Steve laughed.
‘I tell ye what love. If I was keepin’ up that commutin’ ballix I’d be chilled as fuck. I’d be walkin’ around like a zombie on valium.’
With the couple starting to look ill-at-ease having to converse with a slightly drunk and opinionated working-class Irishman, Bobby thought it was time to change the subject.
‘So Josh, been to any good gigs lately?’
‘Saw one of the best I’ve been to in years. Billy Bragg played the Dome and….’
Steve butted in.
‘Ach for fuck’s sake ye don’t like Billy Bragg do ye? All that batin’ ye over the head with a placard preachy shite. He’s just one of them fellas that gives it all of the man-of-the-people crack and ye can just tell that he’s a self-serving egotistical fucker. Boy I hate that big-nosed cunt.’
Emily clunked her glass down on the table.
‘I really would prefer it if you didn’t use that word. I find it really offensive.’
‘Not as offensive as some big-nosed, tone-deaf fucker singin’ one of his dirgey fuckin’ songs for a bunch o’ smug middle-class twats.’
Emily reached for their coats.
‘Let’s go Josh.’
Steve took another swig of his pint and waved the angry couple goodbye, affecting a grating Home Counties accent.
‘See ya guys. Have a lovely chilled-out evening, ya? Missing you already.’
As they watched the pair leave, Steve and Bobby got back to their pints and said nothing for the duration of Buffalo Springfield’s For What it’s Worth which had just come on the jukebox. As the tune faded, Bobby ended the conversational lull.
‘Don’t you think you were being a bit harsh there, boss?’
Steve grinned.
‘Well mate, back in Belfast before the ceasefire, we’d have identified snattery wankers like them as bein’ legitimate targets. I think I let them off lightly there. On another night I’d have been tempted to get the oul’ Kalashnikov out and go for their kneecaps.’
Bobby shook Steve’s hand and laughed.
‘Indeed. Nice work, boss. Now let’s quit this crazy scene, daddio. It’s time for the main event… I’ll call a taxi.’
15
As the taxi made its way through Kemp Town, Steve surveyed the goings-on under the street lights…butch-looking gays snogging passionately outside The Bulldog pub, a transvestite attempting to look feminine as he tottered along drunkenly in high heels, a wired-looking junkie hassling a young couple at a cash machine… it all held a seedy glamour in his newcomer’s eyes. He turned his gaze back to the road ahead and could tell that the driver was intrigued by his passengers’ appearance. He looked old enough to remember their 60s clothes from the first time around and had an impressive Elvis quiff streaked with grey.
‘So is there a bit of a Mod do on tonight lads?’
‘You guessed it, boss,’ said Bobby. ‘I take it you’re of the Rocker fraternity?’
‘Don’t worry about that, lads. I’m a bit past scrapping on the beach. Anyway, you Mods have the edge in Brighton these days, dontcha? That psycho Cubitt is one of your lot aint he?’
‘Don’t think he’s much of a team-player to be honest, boss. Anyway, I’m pleased to report that this particular Mod disapproves of that head-case as much as you evidently do.’
The driver laughed darkly.
‘I doubt that.’
‘How come, boss?’
‘You remember a few years back when an Italian restaurant in Shoreham got burnt to a crisp after Cubitt had been having a dispute with the management about owing him back-rent?’
Bobby nodded.
‘I remember, boss. Three died in the fire, yeah?’
The driver was making his grim pronouncement just as they approached the Hanbury Ballroom.
‘Excuse me boss, this is us.’
The driver quickly pulled over as Bobby gave Steve a knowing look.
‘Sorry lads. Thinkin’ about that Cubitt bastard just gets me riled.’
‘We understand boss… was telling Steve here all about that nutter the other day. Look, I’ve got six quid of shrapnel here… keep the change. And I’m really sorry to hear about what happened to your nephew.’
As the taxi drove off, Steve stood for a while to admire the venue’s Indian-influenced architecture.
‘Pretty impressive, eh?’ said Bobby. ‘Was originally a mausoleum for some Regency toffs.’
‘Well I hope it’s a bit more lively now, mate. Not many punters queuing up, are there?’
‘Don’t worry boss, it’ll be packed inside. Let’s get in there.’
16
At the entrance, where a thick-set Turkish bouncer stood with his shoulders thrust back purposefully as if he had mile-long queue to deal with, Steve could hear one his favourite tunes, All About My Girl by Jimmy McGriff, filtering through the doors.
‘Check that, Bobby. Sounds like the DJs know their onions in this place.’
‘You know you can rely on me to introduce you to the best nightspots, boss.’
The bouncer waved them through.
Once inside the club, Steve was impressed with its art-deco style, which was every bit as elegant as the exterior. Less impressive was the atmosphere. An aging couple in tight 60s clothes ill-suited to their middle-aged girth were behind the decks trying to exude cool but failing to do so. On the dancefloor, there were about six Mods nonchalantly shuffling around and checking out each other’s moves. Judging by their non-Mod attire, the rest of the clientele looked liked they’d stumbled into the club by chance rather than design.