The Last King of Brighton

1970

A gun is a seducer. A gun wants to be fired. It exists to be fired. And, sooner or later, whoever has one will be seduced into firing it.

Hathaway’s father disappeared in 1970. He left without Hathaway’s mother. Hathaway shouldn’t have been surprised by how devastated she was, but he was shocked at her rapid decline once she took to the bottle. He was overwhelmed when she took her own life just a year later, in the summer of 1971.

In February 1970 Dennis Hathaway took his son and Charlie to Spain on business. Reilly went along, of course. It was the first time Hathaway had seen the family hacienda in the mountains near Granada. It was a lovely house but the grounds were like a building site. They were a building site.

Dennis Hathaway was having a swimming pool built inside a long building constructed of local stone. The roof was going to be retractable, like something out of a James Bond film.

‘More like Thunderbirds,’ his father had said, guffawing. ‘Watch your feet there. That cement’s still wet. Don’t want to see imprints of your big clodhoppers across the floor of the pool.’

‘You’re having it tiled, aren’t you?’

‘You bet – but even so.’

Hathaway’s father was in a good mood because they’d just concluded a deal in Marbella to get hashish in large quantities from Morocco, transiting to England overland through Spain and France, then shipping from a small harbour near Deauville up to the West Pier.

Charlie was, as usual, cautious around Hathaway. They had a kind of working relationship but he knew Hathaway had never forgiven him for killing Elaine.

He was half-right. Hathaway was in a place that nobody he knew would understand. What did he feel about the death of Elaine? If he were honest, on its own he could take it. But there were other things.

His father was outlining his plans. Hathaway half-listened. He had his own plans.

They’d been drinking solidly all day. On the terrace, looking at the speckled sky and the lights winking down the valley, Hathaway watched his father take another swig of brandy.

‘The Great Train Robbers never squealed on each other,’ he said. ‘Not a one. And the witnesses knew nothing. All they saw was a bunch of blokes in balaclavas and overalls. How could they identify anyone? Bloody hell, they didn’t even know how many robbers there were. Nobody did.’

‘But you do, Dad,’ Hathaway said.

Dennis Hathaway got a strange expression on his face.

‘Makes you say that, son?’

‘Something you said a while back. And I heard two got clean away.’

‘You know that for a fact?’ his father said.

Hathaway nodded drunkenly. Dennis Hathaway sniffed.

‘Remember when your mother and I went down to Spain for our second honeymoon. Left you alone for your birthday?’

Hathaway remembered.

‘I remember you coming back,’ he said, thinking of Barbara.

That passed his father by.

‘Well, I thought it best to be out of the country at that particular time.’

Hathaway thought back.

‘It was around the time of the robbery. I remember reading the papers.’

‘It was two days after the bloody robbery. We were supposed to be holing up at the farm for a couple of weeks, but we thought that one of the locals had got suspicious so we had to make other plans. We split the money. There was so much of it. It was all in fivers and single notes. We didn’t even bother with the ten bob notes. Well, Bruce did but he was like that.’

‘So you really were one of the Great Train Robbers?’

‘No big deal.’

‘And you took the loot to Spain.’

‘Nah, not all of it. Any idea how much space a hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds in singles and fivers takes up?’

Hathaway shook his head.

‘A fuck of a lot.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘That lovely Oxford Morris – remember it?’

Hathaway nodded.

‘Had a false petrol tank and a false bottom to the back seat. Got the tip from a Kraut smuggler. Worked well for a couple of years. The rest – well, you know about the rest – you organized taking most of it over and converting it into diamonds, buying property and so on.’

Hathaway nodded.

‘But where do you hide paperwork about stuff like that?’

His father gave him a sideways look.

‘Why would you want to know a thing like that?’

‘Because I remember you telling me that the less paper around the better. Property leaves a long paper trail, doesn’t it?’

‘Not if you pay cash, son.’

Hathaway looked across at Reilly. He was standing at the edge of the terrace, his back to the others, looking up into the snow-capped mountains.

Hathaway shot his father first. He hadn’t intended to but it was just the way it fell out.

Hathaway had strolled behind Charlie, but his father saw the automatic he pulled from under his shirt and lunged for him.

His father didn’t say anything, but thinking about it later Hathaway assumed he was trying to save Charlie. He actually chose Charlie over his own son. It didn’t really help, even at the time.

His father came out of his chair, one arm stretched out for the gun, his head down. Hathaway shot him through the bald patch on the crown of his skull. It had looked like a target.

His father simply toppled forward and knelt on the marble tiles, his head touching them as if praying to Mecca.

Charlie, half-swinging to look over his shoulder, tilted his chair and toppled, getting it tangled in his legs.

He saw the gun in Hathaway’s hand and started to scrabble away on his back, kicking at the chair. Hathaway aimed the gun loosely in his direction.

‘Don’t,’ Hathaway whispered. He looked over at Reilly, still gazing up into the mountains.

Hathaway was registering the fact that the gun had made scarcely any sound. Later he would register the fact he’d killed his own father.

Charlie was motionless.

‘We’ve had some times, Charlie.’

‘We have,’ Charlie said, his voice croaky.

‘But then you killed my fucking girlfriend.’

‘I’m sorry about that but it had to be done.’

‘Oh Charlie. Don’t sweat it. I’ve done far worse.’

Hathaway pointed the gun at Charlie’s forehead.

‘Goodbye, Charlie.’