The Last King of Brighton (15 page)

‘Dad wants us to get into pop management,' Hathaway said. ‘Reckons there's big money there.'

‘Whatever,' Charlie said, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

Hathaway did a drum roll on the bar.

‘Great.'

Charlie took to managing groups like he'd been born for it. He signed up about two dozen local groups straight off. Brought an edge to his management work. Dangled a big London wheeler-dealer out of a fourth-floor window by his feet when he tried to steal one of his acts. He stubbed a lighted cigar into the forehead of another rival.

‘Fuck, Charlie,' Hathaway said.

‘People I scare are going to have to look over their shoulders for the rest of their lives,' Charlie said.

Dennis Hathaway was impressed. At the end of the pier he reminisced.

‘There's this one guy I know. He was born in Manchester back in 1926. His dad made raincoats. Age fourteen, in the war, he sang in his local synagogue and tried doing a comedy turn. He was rubbish. Sat out the war – mysterious illness that kept him in hospital until the day the war ended, then miraculous recovery – and then became an impressionist – Jimmy Cagney and all that. He actually did the London Palladium. Max Miller said he stank. Maybe he realized it. Anyway, he turned to management, promotions. Worked out of his local phone box.

‘We've had dealings with him. Has his Rolls Royce and his flash jewellery. Manages the Small Faces. Pays off Radio Caroline to play the music from his acts. Pays the Small Faces a salary and gives them a London house, a Jag and driver, and all the clothes they want. No real money, though.'

He looked at Charlie.

‘So far as I'm aware he doesn't commit arson, though.'

Charlie looked levelly back from behind his sunglasses. Hathaway frowned.

‘Arson?'

‘As I understand it, when a certain record company didn't want to release one of Charlie's new groups from its existing contract, its office was burned down.'

‘All I know,' Charlie drawled, ‘is that the group was released from its contract two days later.'

‘And the accountant?' Reilly said.

Charlie held out his hands, palms up.

‘I wanted to make sure he never had a child. So I got my tools out and battered his penis. I could have battered his head but I didn't. I just wanted our fucking money.'

‘What?' Hathaway said, both repelled and fascinated.

‘Charlie here was using an accountant he thought had cheated us,' Reilly said. ‘He grabbed him at home, took him somewhere – not sure where, Charlie – and went to work on him.'

Dennis Hathaway was watching Charlie with a mixture of fascination and respect. Hathaway's main emotion was fear.

EIGHT

Season of the Witch

‘
S
ince when did you join the Grenadier fucking Guards?'

Dennis Hathaway was in his shirt sleeves on the boat. He peered at his son's red Victorian uniform, then at the medals on his son's breast.

‘And it looks like you've had a busy war.'

‘I got it in Carnaby Street,' Hathaway said.

‘The medals? Fighting tourists?'

‘The whole thing.'

Hathaway and Charlie had gone up to Carnaby Street in the summer sunshine. They smoked dope on the train. They wandered London in a daze – dazed by the cannabis, dazed by the life there. Carnaby Street was buzzing, ‘Sergeant Pepper' pumping out of every shop, incense and marijuana in the air, the pavements crowded with dolly birds and hipsters.

‘This is it,' Charlie said. ‘The centre of the fucking universe.'

‘I thought that was Worthing,' Hathaway said.

‘You look a twat,' Dennis Hathaway said now. ‘You know that?'

Dennis Hathaway was peering at his son, screwing up his eyes against the sun. There was a splash of white on his forehead. Suntan lotion he hadn't rubbed in properly. The sun flickered on the water behind him.

‘It's the fashion, Dad,' Hathaway said, still a little stoned from his breakfast joint.

‘To look a twat? And what are those things on your feet?'

‘Plimsolls.'

‘Very useful on route marches.'

‘Handy for boats, though.' He swung himself out on the ladder. ‘Coming aboard, Cap'n Birdseye.'

Dennis Hathaway came up close to him once he was on deck.

‘I'm worried about you, son. I hope you're not using our own bloody product.'

‘You know I'm not.'

Hathaway sniffed.

‘Well, you're smelling of something illegal.'

‘That's patchouli, Dad.'

‘Patchouli? What the fuck is patchouli.'

‘Elaine got it for me.'

Dennis Hathaway tilted his head as if listening for something.

‘Elaine? New one on me. She's your latest quim, is she?'

‘She's special, Dad.'

‘Is she, Sergeant Pratt? Is she? I've got some news for you. Come below.'

Reilly was sitting behind the small table in the cabin of the boat. He blinked when he saw Hathaway.

‘John hasn't got long for this meeting, Sean,' Dennis Hathaway said. ‘He's off to fight the Zulus.'

Dennis and his son both sat down at the small table.

‘We got a problem in Milldean,' Dennis Hathaway said. ‘Gerald Cuthbert is trying it on. The twins pushing him, of course. Not only that, he's trying to muscle in on some of our other business further west. He knows Worthing is ours but he's had his lads down there.'

‘I haven't noticed anything,' Hathaway said, frowning. ‘I would have seen.'

‘That's what I would have hoped,' his father said quietly. ‘But when were you last in Worthing?'

‘Of my own volition?'

‘You don't need to say any more. Charlie looks after it, doesn't he?'

‘He does.'

Hathaway saw his father and Reilly exchange a glance.

‘Right, we'll have a word with him,' Dennis said.

‘I can do that—'

‘He's your friend.'

‘I can do that.'

After a moment his father nodded.

‘What about Cuthbert?' Hathaway said.

Reilly coughed.

‘We'll take care of him.'

‘Are we done, then?' Hathaway said.

‘Not yet. The chief constable has summoned us to a meeting.'

‘What kind of meeting?'

‘The it-never-happened kind. On the Palace Pier. Next week. He wants peace and harmony in the town.'

‘Is that what we want?' Hathaway said.

His father rubbed his cheek.

‘Once we run it, sure.'

Hathaway had met Elaine at a poetry reading in The Ship. It was part of the first Brighton Arts Festival. Yehudi Menuhin was playing his violin. Flora Robson was in
A Man For All Seasons
at the Theatre Royal. Pink Floyd were performing in the West Pier ballroom. And there was poetry. Concrete Poetry, whatever that was. And The Scaffold with Paul McCartney's brother. Billy was keen to see them. Charlie opted out but the rest of The Avalons went along because of The Beatles connection.

It took place in an oak-panelled old room at the rear of The Ship. There were no chairs. Everybody sat on the floor. Even with cushions scattered around it was uncomfortable. Hathaway became aware of a girl sitting just behind him and not just because of the exotic perfume that wafted over him.

‘Am I in your way?' he said, half-turning, trying not to look up her skirt. She had good legs and an impish smile.

‘What is my way?'

He blushed.

‘I mean, can you see?'

‘You? Perfectly. What about you? Have you seen enough?'

She had seen his eyes flick down between her legs.

‘Not nearly enough,' he said.

She stayed with him that night but at dawn insisted on walking barefoot on the beach. On sand, Hathaway could understand. But Brighton was all pebbles and stones. He grimaced at every step.

She was doing American Studies at Sussex. She sprang unfamiliar names on him. Bellow and Updike, and people she called ‘the hipsters': Kerouac, Burroughs, Tom Robbins, Thomas Pynchon. A man called Noam Chomsky featured at the heavy end of discussions. Hathaway was out of his depth but she didn't patronize and he was interested in the things she said.

They saw each other every night for a week. She had a fierce appetite. He didn't know what she saw in him, although he knew he was OK at sex, thanks to Barbara long ago. He thought it was perhaps also a class thing. She was middle class. She liked roughing it. She called him Mellors once, then laughed. He didn't get it at the time.

On the first night he'd asked her what her heady perfume was.

‘Patchouli.'

‘What's patchouli?'

‘A musk-based perfume. Perfumes are either musk or flower-based. Musk smells of shit, essentially.'

‘Lovely.'

‘James Joyce was a bicycle-seat sniffer, you know.'

‘I'll take your word for that,' Hathaway said, not knowing who James Joyce was.

‘Musk and ambergris are low-down dirty smells, hence the link with excrement. Then, during the eighteenth century, when aristocratic women had to pretend to be modest, perfume makers developed sweeter floral scents. Then it changed again during the French Revolution. Am I boring you?'

‘No, why?' Hathaway said, his voice muffled.

‘You seem more interested in my left nipple.'

‘A man can do two things at once.'

Elaine laughed.

‘Not in my experience.'

Hathaway lifted his head.

‘Go on.'

‘Under the Terror, what perfume you wore indicated your allegiance. You could get the guillotine if your handkerchief smelt of royal perfumes – lily or
eau de la reine
, water of the queen. The Directory, Consulate and Empire marked the return of strong perfumes with an animal base. Josephine liked musk, ambergris and civet.'

‘How do you know all that?'

‘I'm at Sussex. That's the kind of history they teach.'

When Hathaway next saw his father, he was holding court in the back room of the Bath Arms.

‘And I'm telling you, Mr Reilly, that I want these scumbags found. I want them teaching a lesson.'

A schoolboy had been found sexually assaulted then strangled up Roedean way.

‘And the police?' Reilly said.

‘I don't think there'll be anything left for the police.'

‘Since when did we start doing a copper's work for him?' Reilly said.

‘Since we started getting protection money from people. They pay for protection, we provide it.'

Reilly smiled thinly.

‘Didn't realize we actually fulfilled those obligations.'

‘I thought that was protection from us,' Charlie said with a laugh.

Dennis Hathaway looked from one to the other.

‘Well, you're both wrong. You think we're all take and no give? These people rely on us. Some nonces kill a young lad, a schoolkid with his future all ahead of him. On my patch. On
my
patch. Somebody is taking the Michael. And I won't stand for that. Not for an instant. So I want these men found and I want them bringing to the pier, and then we'll see what's what.'

‘What's in it for us?' Reilly insisted.

‘Reputation. I told you – nobody is going to take the Michael on our turf. If we're not in control, then it's anarchy and we don't want to go back to that. That's what we fought a war for.'

Reilly raised an eyebrow.

‘Not exactly.'

‘Mr Reilly you're starting to annoy me. We fought a war so that true-born Englishmen could remain free, and we even gave freedom to the frogs and a few worthy orientals along the way. No need to thank us, lads.'

‘As you say,
Mister
Hathaway,' Reilly said, leaning over to pat Dennis Hathaway's arm.

‘So just bloody well get on with it, will you?'

‘As you say.' Reilly got to his feet.

‘Anything I can do?' Hathaway asked.

‘I don't know? Is there?' His father looked at him. ‘Put the word out on your rock 'n' roll circuit that we want information. We'll pay.'

Hathaway nodded.

‘OK, Dad.'

‘You understand, do you, son, that it's all about a code of honour?'

‘Dad?'

‘We look after the people who pay for all we have. Violence we save for others in the same business as us. And scum like the men who've done this to someone on our patch. We don't target civilians if we can help it.'

‘I know that, Dad.'

Over the next few days, a dozen or so nonces were hauled down to the pier and given beatings of various degrees of severity in the storeroom beyond the office. None admitted to the crime, all named names. There were buckets of water constantly at hand to sluice the blood down into the sea. A half a dozen other men gave themselves in to the police and owned up to other offences.

Hathaway went off on a smuggling trip to Dieppe and Honfleur. He arrived back on a sunny day, the wind fresh. He climbed up the ladder from the bobbing boat and stopped by the firing range for a chat with Tommy and Mickey.

‘Dad in the office?' he finally said.

Mickey nodded.

‘He's got a lot on, mind, so be cautious.'

‘The prodigal son returns,' Dennis Hathaway said when he looked up from his desk and saw his son. ‘How were the Dieppe lasses? Supposed to be the prettiest in France.'