The Last King of Brighton

by Peter Guttridge

  As Charlie ploughed into them, Hathaway looked at Dan and Bill and pulled his Fender Stratocaster over his head.

  ‘Bugger,’ he said, laying the guitar carefully down.

  Hathaway had been in his share of scraps. His father had taught him the rudiments of boxing but he’d taken up judo when he was fourteen and moved up the grades pretty quickly.

  The Ted who’d thrown the coins was out of his seat and heading straight for Hathaway. Hathaway knew exactly what to do. He was going to grab the man by his velvet lapels, nut him, then do a backward roll, plant his feet in his stomach and use his opponent’s weight to send him over his shoulders on to the floor behind him.

  That was the theory. But when he grabbed the Ted’s lapels he felt something slice into his fingers. He let go and saw the blood a moment before the Ted nutted him. He managed to turn his head to avoid getting a broken nose but the man’s hard forehead hit him with a loud crack against his cheekbone and eye socket.

  Dazed, Hathaway could do nothing as the man followed it up with a kick to the shin that indicated there was some kind of steel toecap inside his suede brothel creepers. The man grabbed Hathaway’s own lapels, pulled him towards him and nutted him again. This time the nose went. Hathaway keeled over.

  Charlie had gone under in a welter of flailing fists and feet. Dan and Bill, neither of them scrappers, hadn’t even really got started. The smallest of the Teds had hit Dan on the side of the head with a bottle that, thankfully, didn’t smash. Bill had slumped to the floor after a kick between the legs.

  They could do nothing as five of the Teddy boys wrecked their gear. The sixth, the smallest, stood over Hathaway. He was unbuttoning his fly when the big one pulled him away. He leaned over Hathaway, who was trying to breath through his mouth as blood poured down his throat.

  ‘Listen, Hank Marvin,’ he said. ‘If your dad ever comes home again, tell him this pub ain’t his anymore.’

  Then the six teddy boys sauntered out of the room.

  ‘What did he mean about the pub not being your dad’s any more?’ Bill said, as the four of them sat in the emergency room of the hospital.

  Hathaway shrugged, holding a wadded cloth to his nose. His fingers stung. In his eagerness to use his judo move he’d forgotten that Teddy boys habitually sewed razor blades behind their jacket lapels so that nobody could grab them to nut them.

  ‘Something to do with the one-armed bandits?’ he said, his voice thick.

  One of his dad’s various businesses was leasing one-armed bandits to pubs and clubs along the south coast. He had his own machines in his amusement arcade on the end of the West Pier.

  ‘I borrowed the money off my dad for that drum kit,’ Charlie said. ‘He’ll go mental.’

  ‘I don’t even want to think what the Strat cost my dad,’ Hathaway said.

  Two nurses came over. They looked disapproving.

  ‘We’ll see you all together,’ one of them said. ‘And afterwards a policeman will want a word.’

  Two hours later, Hathaway was home. His hands were bandaged and his nose had been reset. He had a lump like a goose egg on his shin and he felt about a hundred. He wanted to telephone Barbara but he didn’t know her number. He didn’t really know her home circumstances. He thought she might be married but he hadn’t liked to ask – he didn’t want to spoil what was going on. He’d noticed a faint white mark on her ring finger, as if she took off her wedding ring before she met him. And although she sometimes met him late in the evening, she never stayed the night.

  He sat on the sofa listening to Please Please Me on his parent’s radiogram, thinking about Barbara. He’d had girlfriends before but he’d been a virgin until that Sunday. She’d been patient with him. She’d seemed sad and, when he asked to see her again, anxious. But she’d agreed. Since then she’d taught him things. The evening she’d asked if he’d like her to French him had been a revelation.

  She didn’t like to come round to the house because she didn’t want the neighbours talking, but there was a hotel she knew on the seafront down towards Hove that they’d gone to once. She paid for the room.

  He was modest enough to wonder what this glamorous older woman saw in him, but he was arrogant enough not to worry about it. He was dying to brag to his friends but she’d pleaded with him not to. She said she’d feel embarrassed.

  That was why she wouldn’t go out anywhere with him, though he wanted her to come and see the group. The only time they had gone on a date was to a late-night screening of some Hammer horror film. They’d sat in the back row and, of course, he couldn’t keep his hands off her. She’d unbuttoned his trousers and used her hand on him.

  Although he was in pain, just thinking about her now got him excited. He had trouble sleeping that night.

  On Saturday, the doorbell woke Hathaway. He tried to ignore it but it persisted. He put on his dressing gown and slippers and padded down the stairs. He hoped it might be Barbara. He picked up the newspaper lying on the doormat.

  He squinted in the glare of the sun when he opened the door.

  ‘Good grief, Johnny. You’ve been in the wars, I see.’

  ‘Mr Reilly.’

  ‘Sean, please. Do you mind if I come in for a moment?’

  Sean Reilly was, as far as Hathaway could figure it, a kind of Mr Fix It for his father. Hathaway wasn’t clear exactly what his father did – he wasn’t interested actually – but whenever there was a problem he called on Reilly.

  Reilly was middle-aged, in his mid-forties judging by the way he’d mentioned seeing action with his father in World War Two. But he was in pretty good nick. He moved gracefully and was well muscled. He reminded Hathaway of one of his judo instructors. He smiled readily enough but Hathaway had always found his eyes cold and hard.

  ‘Have you heard from Dad?’ Hathaway said when they were sitting on the sofas in the front room. He was suddenly anxious about why Reilly was there.

  ‘Your mum and dad are fine. I believe they’re buying some property in Spain. As an investment and for a holiday home.’ Reilly crossed his legs. He was wearing cavalry twill trousers and polished brogues. ‘No, I’m here to find out what happened to you.’

  ‘Oh, just a rumble with some Teds. It was nothing.’

  ‘So I see,’ he said, gesturing at Hathaway’s face. He chuckled. ‘Are you telling me I should see the other fella?’

  ‘Not exactly, no,’ Hathaway said sheepishly. ‘We got leathered.’

  ‘It happens,’ Reilly said cheerfully. ‘Any other broken bones aside from that swelling that used to pass for your nose?’

  Hathaway realized he had no idea what he looked like. He stood and looked at his face in the mirror over the fireplace. Jesus. Huge yellow and black bruises around his eyes, his nose a swollen mess. He gulped.

  ‘Ah, that’ll all be gone in a fortnight, don’t you worry,’ Reilly said. ‘Sit yourself down again.’

  Hathaway sat and Reilly continued:

  ‘I wondered what you made of these fellas?’

  ‘Looking for trouble, like I told the police. Razor blades in their lapels, steel toecaps in their brothel creepers. They were ready to rumble.’

  Reilly nodded.

  ‘Your mates OK?’

  ‘Charlie the drummer got a good kicking – couple of broken ribs – and Bill the rhythm guitarist has swollen goolies. Dan the singer had to have stitches in the side of his head but no concussion or anything. It’s the equipment we’re most bothered about. We had no insurance.’

  Reilly nodded again.

  ‘You say you spoke to the police?’

  ‘At the hospital. We just told them what had happened.’

  ‘Was there anything you didn’t tell them?’

  Hathaway frowned.

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  Reilly shrugged.

  ‘You tell me. Did these thugs say anything to you?’

  ‘Said I needed guitar lessons.’

  Reilly smiled.

  ‘Aside from that.’


  Hathaway told him what the Teddy boy had said about the pub not being his father’s anymore. Reilly sat forward.

  ‘And he used exactly those words?’

  ‘Well, he also called me Hank Marvin but aside from that, yes.’

  Reilly sat back in his seat.

  ‘What about the landlord – did he wade in?’

  ‘No, but he’s only a little bloke. He did call the ambulance.’

  ‘And the police?’

  Hathaway thought for a moment.

  ‘I don’t know. The ambulance whisked us off to hospital pretty quickly – police might have come after we’d gone.’

  Reilly stood.

  ‘All right, then.’

  ‘What did he mean about the pub not being Dad’s anymore, Mr Reilly?’

  ‘Sean,’ Reilly said. ‘I don’t rightly know. Maybe something to do with the bandits, you know?’

  ‘Are you going to tell my father what happened?’

  ‘Do you want me to? No, I think he knows you’re old enough to look out for yourself.’ He squeezed Hathaway’s arm. ‘You were unlucky this time but you’ve learned for next time.’

  Hathaway touched his nose tentatively.

  ‘I hope there won’t be a next time.’

  Reilly smiled.

  ‘Tell your mates not to worry about the equipment. I’m sure we can find some way of making a claim through the business.’

  ‘Great – thanks, er, Sean,’ Hathaway said.

  Reilly glanced over at the newspaper.

  ‘Looks like they’re on to the gang.’

  Hathaway looked at the front page. There were photographs of three men the police wanted to help with their inquiries into the Great Train Robbery. Bruce Reynolds, Charlie Wilson and Jimmy White.

  ‘They found their fingerprints at the farm. Seems a bit careless. As for Roger and Bill . . .’

  ‘Those men who were caught at the start of the week? Is it the same Roger Cordrey dad knows? The florist?’

  ‘It is. Bill Boal’s his friend. The chances of Bill being involved in a robbery are about zero. Last thing he got charged with was fiddling a gas meter back in the forties.’

  Hathaway pointed at the photographs.

  ‘You know these men as well?’

  Reilly shook his head slowly.

  ‘I’ve heard of them. Hard men. Rumour is they were in that airport robbery last year.’

  Hathaway remembered reading about the wages robbery committed by half a dozen bowler-hatted men armed with pickaxe handles and shotguns. A man called Gordon Goody had been tried but acquitted, because when, in court, he put on the hat he was supposed to have worn at the robbery, it was two sizes too big.

  ‘The one Goody was acquitted for?’

  Reilly laughed.

  ‘That was a good gag with the hat.’

  ‘Gag?’

  ‘The story goes that he bribed a policeman to switch the hats.’

  ‘How do you know these things?’

  Reilly shrugged.

  ‘You’d be surprised what you pick up at the racecourse.’

  Hathaway nodded, feeling out of his depth but thrilled to be having a conversation with someone clearly in the know.

  ‘Will they catch them?’ he said. ‘The Great Train Robbers?’

  Reilly smiled.

  ‘Doubt it – they’ll be out of the country by now, I would think.’

  He moved towards the door.

  ‘Better get going.’

  Reilly shook Hathaway’s hand and patted him on the arm before he stepped out of the house. As Hathaway was closing the door, Reilly turned.

  ‘Just remember one thing, John.’ He smiled, but again the smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘There’s always a next time.’

  ‘Oh, John.’ Barbara’s face hovered near Hathaway as she seemed to be trying to figure out a place to kiss him that wouldn’t hurt him. She’d come straight from work but still seemed dolled up to Hathaway. She was wearing a tight skirt and an angora cardigan that clung to her breasts. Hathaway wrenched at the buttons of the cardigan.

  Afterwards, as she lay on his chest, still straddling him, he said:

  ‘Did Reilly tell you?’

  ‘In passing,’ she said. ‘I had to wait an age before I was alone so I could phone you.’

  ‘Thanks for coming round.’

  She gave a low laugh.

  ‘It’s absolutely my pleasure.’

  ‘Mine too,’ he said as she rolled off him and on to her side.

  After a minute or two:

  ‘I’ve been wondering how Reilly heard,’ Hathaway said.

  ‘From the publican, I presume,’ Barbara said, sliding her hand down Hathaway’s stomach. ‘He’s an old customer of your dad’s.’

  ‘Not any more,’ Hathaway said, giving a little grunt.

  Barbara nuzzled her face into Hathaway’s neck and murmured in his ear.

  ‘How much do you know about what your father does?’

  ‘Very little,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘That’s what I thought. When I first came to see you, on that Sunday, I thought you knew far more.’

  ‘What do you mean? Is there stuff I should know? Barbara?’

  Barbara was sliding down Hathaway’s side.

  ‘Barbara?’

  ‘Darling,’ she said after a moment through the curtain of her hair. ‘Don’t you know a lady doesn’t talk with her mouth full?’

  TWO

  Devil in Disguise

  1963

  ‘Listen to this,’ Billy said, taking a single carefully out of its paper sleeve and threading it on to the long spindle of the radiogram.

  ‘Who is it?’ Charlie said.

  ‘Dusty Springfield has gone solo. It’s her first single.’

  ‘Dusty, my Dusty,’ Dan groaned, tilting his head back on the sofa. ‘If only you knew what a constant companion you were to me in my bed.’ He looked at the others. ‘Well, you and Christine Keeler.’

  ‘Hang on, Christine Keeler’s with me,’ Billy said. ‘I’m not sharing her.’

  ‘She’s probably already with Johnny here,’ Charlie said. ‘His mystery bird.’

  The four members of the band were sprawled around Hathaway’s parent’s living room, bottles of beer on the coffee table, half-pint glasses in their hands, cheese and crackers on plates. It was Sunday afternoon, a few hours before the group’s evening gig.

  Charlie was riffling through the record collection. Dan had been scanning the latest NME.

  ‘I only want to be with you too, Dusty,’ Dan crooned, singing along in a strangulated voice to the single on the turntable. ‘I’ve heard this on Radio Luxembourg. We could do this.’

  ‘I’ve heard she’s a lezzie,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Dusty Springfield a lezzie?’ Dan said. ‘Bugger off.’

  He put on The Beatles.

  Charlie said from the record stack: ‘They’ll never catch on. Hey, look at this – George Shearing, Ella Fitzgerald, Lena Horne – your dad really likes easy listening doesn’t he, John?’

  ‘You haven’t got to the big band stuff yet.’

  ‘Your dad’s got quite a good singing voice,’ Dan said. Hathaway looked at him.

  ‘That party I came to a couple of years ago – he did that duet with Matt Monro.’

  ‘Your dad knows Matt Monro?’ Charlie said. ‘Don’t tell my mum that.’

  ‘He came as a favour – my mum likes him too.’

  ‘Your dad sounds interesting,’ Charlie said. ‘I’ve heard some stories.’

  Hathaway saw Billy and Dan exchange glances.

  ‘He’s OK,’ Hathaway said.

  There was a lull, then:

  ‘They chucked a car off Beachy Head today,’ Billy said.

  ‘Who did?’ Hathaway said.

  ‘Brighton studios. It’s a film called Smokescreen. They set fire to it then pushed it over the edge.’

  ‘What were you doing out there?’

  ‘What do you think
? Gardening. That lighthouse up on the top? Anyway, there’s this sexy French woman in it. Yvette somebody.’

  Charlie walked back to the record collection.

  ‘Hello, hello – here he is. Matt Monro. Love Is the Same Anywhere. True or false, Johnny?’

  ‘That’s my mum’s.’

  Dan broke into a mock-basso version of From Russia with Love. The four of them had seen the film together a couple of months earlier.

  ‘Oh that Russian bint from the film,’ Billy said. ‘You can have Christine Keeler, Dan, and I’ll have her.’

  ‘Johnny’s probably got her stashed away upstairs too.’

  They all looked at Hathaway.

  ‘Come on,’ Charlie said, walking back to the sofas and sitting down, automatically touching his bandaged ribs as he did so. ‘Tell us about this girl you’re being so secretive about. When are we going to meet her?’

  Hathaway was dying to tell but Barbara was almost paranoid about anyone finding out about them.

  ‘She’s just somebody who works for Dad.’

  ‘Did your dad set you up?’ Dan said. ‘That’s very modern.’

  ‘Ha ha. She’s a stunner but really nice too.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Charlie said. ‘Just tell us what she’s like between the sheets.’

  ‘Have you gone all the way?’ Billy said.

  Hathaway felt a lot for Barbara but he was seventeen. He fought to keep the smirk off his face.

  ‘You have, you sod,’ Dan said. ‘You bloody have.’

  Hathaway saw Charlie watching him. Of the three gathered round him, Hathaway reckoned Charlie was the only other one who’d actually had full sex with a girl – at least to hear him talk. But Hathaway had gone one better. He took a sip of his drink.

  ‘She’s ten years older than me.’

  ‘Lucky bastard,’ Billy said.

  ‘Ten years older,’ Charlie said, possibly sceptical, possibly jealous. ‘Bet she’s shown you a thing or two.’

  Hathaway couldn’t stop himself.

  ‘She does French.’

  ‘Does French,’ Charlie said. ‘Hark at him. A month ago he thought vagina was an American state and now he’s the bloody Kinsey Report.’

  Bill and Dan fell about. Hathaway grinned.

  Charlie sat on the arm of the sofa.