The Last King of Brighton (3 page)

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

‘
L
isten 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.

‘Should we try to get our own back on those Teddy boys?' he said.

Dan stopped laughing.

‘Are you mad?' he said. ‘They gave us a real kicking.'

‘But they did smash up our gear,' Charlie said. He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a long bicycle chain. ‘And next time, I'm ready for trouble.'

The others stared at him.

‘Have you got Sonny Liston in the other pocket?' Billy said. ‘Cos that's who we're going to need.'

Hathaway didn't say anything but instinctively touched his nose. The swelling had pretty much gone down now and the colour faded from round his eyes. Every time he thought about the beating he'd sustained he got angry about the Teddy boy who'd unbuttoned his fly. If the other Ted hadn't stopped him, Hathaway was sure the man would have pissed on him. He hadn't told anybody about that but he fantasized killing the little creep in various bloody ways.

‘I think my father's company is going to sort out insurance,' he finally said.

‘Can't it sort out those buggers too?' Billy said. ‘Like your dad sorted out Nobby Stokes.'

Charlie looked at Hathaway with interest. Dan looked away. Hathaway bridled.

‘What do you mean, Bill?'

Bill caught his tone.

‘I didn't mean anything by it, Johnny.'

‘Yes, but what
did
you mean?'

‘C'mon, Johnny,' Charlie said. ‘Even I heard the story about your dad and your headmaster, and I wasn't even at your school.'

‘It gets exaggerated in the telling,' Hathaway said.

‘I was only joking,' Bill said.

Hathaway nodded.

‘I know.'

They sat listening to The Beatles in awkward silence, then the phone rang. Hathaway walked over to answer it.

‘Get those dancing girls out of there now, Johnny!'

It was his father.

‘Max Miller's dead,' his father said. ‘Died back in May and I've only just heard.'

‘Where are you, Dad?'

‘Never mind that. Your mother sends her love. Your granddad knew him, you know, when he was starting out. He was Thomas Sargent back then. Lived in the same house on Burlington Street for fifteen years. Damn shame.'

‘How old was he?'

‘About seventy, so he'd lived a good life.'

‘When are you coming back, Dad?'

There was a pause, then:

‘Son, do me a favour and take a walk down the street.'

‘Now?'

‘No, son, next week. Of course, now.'

‘But, Dad—'

‘Humour me, son.'

Hathaway put the phone down and called to the others: ‘I'll be back in five minutes.'

He walked down to the phone box on the corner. Somebody was in it. Hathaway hesitated for a moment then tapped on the window. The man looked round, irritated, saw Hathaway and pushed open the door a few inches.

‘My father – sorry . . .'