The Last King of Brighton (16 page)

‘I've got a girlfriend, Dad.'

‘You're too young to be a monk.'

‘I'm hardly that.'

‘Aye, well.'

‘Anything I should know?'

‘We soldier on, John, we soldier on.'

‘Any word on the men who killed that lad?'

‘Let's say the moving finger writes and having writ moves on.'

‘You've been at the Rubaiyat again, Dad – Mum warned you about that.'

His father laughed.

‘Cheeky sod. I bet you don't know how it goes on?'

Hathaway sat down in the chair on the other side of his father's desk.

‘Actually, I do. I learned it for just such an occasion.'

‘Let's hear it, then.'

‘. . . nor all your piety nor wit shall lure it back to a cancel half a line—'

‘Nor all your tears wash out a word of it. Or to put it a Brighton way – no good crying over spilt milk.'

‘Whose milk has been spilt exactly?'

‘All you need to worry about is your piety, young Mr Monk – don't waste the best years of your life on getting too serious about just one girl.'

‘There's more to life than having sex with lots of girls,' Hathaway said as Reilly walked in.

‘Listen, Mr Reilly. Life's young philosopher.'

‘The lad's in love. Let him enjoy it.'

Hathaway flushed.

‘I wouldn't go that far . . .'

His father looked at him intently.

‘When are we going to meet this girl, then?'

‘Do you want to?'

‘I know your mum does – see if she approves. Not that mothers ever approve, mind.'

The chief constable's meeting on the Palace Pier was an odd experience for Hathaway. He knew his father had something on Philip Simpson because of the Brighton Trunk Murder files. Simpson knew it too, so whilst he was being all high and mighty, he had to skirt around Dennis Hathaway. Reilly and Charlie were there, Reilly in a safari jacket, Charlie looking like Big Breadwinner Hogg with his kipper tie, wide lapels and flared jacket.

Hathaway was surprised to see Gerald Cuthbert there. He and his three heavies still favoured the Krays' look – box jackets with narrow lapels over big chests.

He didn't think anyone was carrying a gun, although Sergeant Finch's double-breasted civvy suit bulged oddly. He knew Charlie had his flick knife and assumed Cuthbert and his men had knives or knuckledusters or both. There were a couple of CID men in sports jackets and jeans.

Two men arrived late. Slender, Italian-looking, in sharp suits. Luigi and Francis, cousins of the murdered Boroni brothers. When all the men were seated, giving each other hard looks, Philip Simpson began.

‘We've got to get some harmony in town,' he said. ‘There is stuff I can turn a blind eye to and stuff I will not tolerate. Above all, I don't want killings, like last year's incident with Tony and Raymond Boroni.'

‘For which nobody was brought to justice,' Luigi Boroni said, shooting Dennis Hathaway a cold look.

‘Investigations are continuing,' Simpson said. ‘The case is being actively pursued.'

‘Why don't you ask some of the people round this table?' Luigi said.

‘Why don't you go fuck yourself?' Dennis Hathaway said.

It took a moment, then the Boronis, Reilly and Dennis Hathaway were all on their feet.

‘Gentlemen! Gentlemen!'

Simpson was standing too, and his CID men had moved in to subdue anything that might kick off.

Dennis Hathaway kept his eyes fixed on Luigi but pointed at Cuthbert, who was sitting jiggling his foot.

‘First off, Philip, I want to know what the fuck that scum is doing here. He's a loan shark ripping off hard-working people, a scavenger who feeds off of our leftovers. He doesn't respect the demarcation lines we've set up in the past. He needs to be firmly squashed. And if you don't do it, I will.'

One of the CID men stepped in front of Cuthbert as he stood.

‘And as for the Boronis,' Dennis Hathaway went on, ‘I don't know who killed their cousins. All I heard was that two clowns killed two clowns. They were messing with the twins. Seems to me anyone could have killed them – their friends as easily as their enemies.' He pointed now at Luigi. ‘All I want from these guys is an assurance they're going to keep Brighton for Brighton and not bring in out-of-towners.'

‘Now there I agree.' Simpson raised his voice. ‘There's enough business going on for all of us. We don't need out-of-towners here. We don't want them. I won't have them.'

‘With respect, Chief Constable,' Cuthbert shouted as he tried to push past the CID officer to get at Dennis Hathaway. ‘What you want and don't want don't stack up to much against those London boys. They've taken on the Met and won. If they want to take over down here, I don't see how you're going to stop them.'

Simpson gave him a hard look.

‘Leave that to me.'

It was always difficult for Hathaway to switch gear from his day job to the group. He was feeling more and more distanced from The Avalons. But he was also trying not to think about the more brutal things he was involved in. He couldn't forget looking back as he and Charlie walked off the Palace Pier in their sweaty, scratchy clown costumes to see the Boroni Brothers emerge from the ghost train shed, slumped forward in their seats, soaked in blood. Then the screams.

He thought the meeting on the Palace Pier today was going to end up that way but, in fact, the kettle didn't really boil at all.

‘Well, that was a waste of time,' Charlie said as the four West Pier men headed back along the Palace Pier.

‘On the contrary,' Dennis Hathaway said, ‘that was bloody great. Look at who's against us – third raters.'

‘What about the twins?' Hathaway said.

His father had just grinned.

Tonight they were on the West Pier supporting Pink Floyd. Elaine would be somewhere in the audience with some of her student mates.

Tony and Charlie turned up together. Billy and Dan turned up at seven prompt, in military jackets and jeans.

The Avalons had proper dressing rooms for a change, but they all went out on the pier and leaned over the balustrade. They shared a joint.

‘How are you doing, gents?' Hathaway said.

‘Not great actually, John,' Dan said.

Hathaway tilted his head.

‘Oh?'

‘We're a bit worried about what's going on with the group,' Billy said.

‘Things are going great, aren't they?' Hathaway said, passing the joint along.

‘Onstage, yes, but offstage, no . . .' Dan tailed off.

‘Offstage?' Hathaway said. ‘What about offstage?'

‘Look, what you and Charlie want to get up to is up to you,' Billy said. ‘But we just want to be in a successful rock 'n' roll band.'

‘And we think,' Dan said, ‘that the stuff you're doing is putting that success at risk.'

Hathaway looked puzzled.

‘What stuff are we doing exactly?'

Dan shook his head.

‘C'mon, John. Don't treat us like fools. The two of you are selling drugs with our roadie friend, Alan. And you're both busy managing other acts. We hardly even have time to rehearse and there's a lot of new music we should be covering.'

‘We want you to stop dealing at our gigs,' Billy said.

Hathaway looked from one to the other.

‘Well, that's going to be a bit complicated,' he said.

They waited for him to go on.

‘I mean there are other people involved. They wouldn't be too happy if we chucked it in.'

‘Couldn't they find other people to do what you're doing?'

‘Again, it's not that simple.'

Hathaway seemed to ponder. Pointed at the joint in Dan's hand.

‘Look, I know you guys smoke dope. You don't see anything wrong with it. We all think it should be legal, but until it is Charlie and me are providing a service.'

‘But it's illegal. You could end up in prison. And we could easily be accused of being accomplices.'

‘Not a chance of either of those things.' Hathaway said.

‘Oh – really.'

‘Really. The police are in on it.'

‘Bugger off. The entire force?'

‘People that count. Look, I'm trusting you with this. The fix is all the way in.'

Dan and Billy looked at each other. Billy spoke.

‘OK, but there's something else. The direction the group is going. Bill and me, we want to go an acoustic folkie route.'

‘Folkie?' Charlie said, disgust in his voice.

Hathaway put his hand on Charlie's arm. He knew that Bill and Dan rehearsed a lot together. Bill had been teaching Dan guitar.

‘OK, here's a deal. Why don't you set up as a duo and run a folk club?'

The other three looked at him with varying degrees of surprise.

‘You want to break the band up?' Charlie said.

‘You're sacking us?' Billy said.

‘How are we going to set up a folk club?' Dan said.

Hathaway latched on to Dan's remark.

‘As you know, my dad's company has branched out into pop promotion. Managing bands, running tours – and running clubs. We've been thinking about a folk club.'

‘Nobody told me,' Charlie said.

‘Didn't think you'd be interested in a folk club, Charlie, and your hands are full managing acts,' Hathaway said. ‘Anyway, Dan, we wouldn't expect you to run it but maybe you and Bill could host it.'

Bill and Dan looked at each other. Nodded.

‘We could do that.'

‘So that's the end of The Avalons?' Charlie said.

‘Not necessarily,' Hathaway said. ‘There's no reason why you couldn't do both, is there?'

Billy shook his head.

‘Of course not.'

Hathaway looked at Charlie.

‘You OK with that?'

Charlie didn't say anything for a moment. Then:

‘As long as I can manage these two.'

Bill and Dan laughed. Uncertainly.

Hathaway took Elaine down to Cuckmere Haven. After a walk along the shingle beach beneath Beachy Head, the chalk cliff glaring white in the sunshine, they got fish and chips in newspaper from the café and sat on a bench looking out to sea.

Although Elaine was doing American studies she wanted to be an actress. She also wanted to go to India.

‘What do you want to do with your life, John?' she said. ‘You can't want to spend it all in Brighton.'

‘Course not.' He gestured to his left. ‘I'm fond of Eastbourne too.'

She punched his arm.

‘There's this film called
Blow Up
; looks like it might be your cup of tea,' he said. ‘Bloke called David Hemmings – I met him in Brighton last year when he made a film about a pop band here. Do you fancy seeing it?'

She smiled and sucked on the straw in her bottle of pop.

‘Here endeth the discussion about John's future.'

‘Well, what about you?' he said, a little heat in his voice.

‘You know about me. India for six months, then acting.' She leaned into him. ‘Come to India with me. We'd have a groovy time.'

Hathaway kissed her forehead.

‘Except that I'm not a footloose student, I'm a working man. I can't just chuck in my job and head east.'

‘Sure you can; you just have to want to.'

She reached into her voluminous handbag and pulled out an A4 book. She laid it beside her and continued to root.

‘What's that?' he said.

‘My diary, volume three.'

‘Must be a serious diary.'

‘Oh it is. Have you heard of Anaïs Nin?'

‘Is it an Indian takeaway?'

‘Ha ha. She's my inspiration. Ah, here we are.' She brought out a parcel wrapped in brown paper with a red ribbon around it.

‘A little gift for you.'

Hathaway was touched. He'd never, ever had a gift from a girl.

‘John Donne,' he read on the cover of the first book.

‘Most beautiful love poetry in the world – but don't get any soppy ideas. Just wanted to bring a bit of beauty to your cynical soul.'

‘Soppiness discouraged. Got it.'

He looked at the other book.

‘What is it?' Hathaway asked.

The cover was red plastic and the book a bit bigger than the prayer books they used to have at school.

‘It's the words of Mao Tse-tung,' Elaine said. ‘Give you something to think about.'

She looked at him earnestly, which made him want to shag her even more than usual. A girl with a passionate mouth trying to look serious always did that to him.

Hathaway looked at the book.

‘That chink who keeps sending death squads to kill James Bond and finance nutters like Blofeld?' Hathaway said. ‘He's a Commie, isn't he?'

‘Communism is more complex than that. At Sussex there are Trotskyists and Leninist-Stalinists. Mao is the world's most rigorous Leninist-Stalinist, so now a lot of people are calling themselves Maoists.'

Hathaway flicked through the pages. Elaine grinned at him.

‘Where'd you get it?' Hathaway said.

‘They're free to anyone who wants one.' She grinned again. ‘Ninety million in print round the world.'

‘But you're always telling me I'm a filthy capitalist.'

‘You can change.'

Hathaway thought about the business he was in.