The Last King of Brighton

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.

‘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…’

‘I’ll call you back in half an hour,’ the man said, putting the phone back on its cradle.

‘Sorry,’ Hathaway said again. The man waved Hathaway’s apology away as he walked down the street, shoulders hunched.

Hathaway stood in the booth waiting for the telephone to ring. His parents probably had the only telephone on the estate, but his father never made or took calls from there, preferring to use this phone box. Everybody on the street knew it was ‘his’ phone box and respected that fact.

Hathaway knew the respect came out of fear of his father. It wasn’t something he liked to think about. The telephone rang.

‘Johnny?’

‘I’m here, Dad.’

‘Johnny, your mum and I are staying out here a bit longer than we thought. Another month probably. We wondered if you’d like to join us?’

‘Where are you exactly?’

‘Spain.’

‘Spain’s a big country, Dad.’

‘Showing off your geography lessons again? Humour me, son. You know I’ve got my funny ways.’

‘I think it’s called paranoia, Dad.’

‘No – it’s called caution, son. So what do you think?’

‘The group’s doing well, Dad. I need to be here, really.’

‘As you wish. Your mum wants to know whether you’re eating properly.’

‘Of course. Is she there?’

‘She’s out by the pool but she sends her love.’

His mother was growing increasingly eccentric. Menopause, his father said, but Hathaway didn’t really know what that meant.

His dad hung up.

Barbara came to see the group that evening. Unwillingly, but Hathaway had insisted. She sat right at the back, looking uneasy. Hathaway introduced her to the others during the break, but nobody could think of anything to say so the rest of the group left the two of them sitting together.

Afterwards, in her car, she wasn’t in a talking mood. She gave him French instead.

‘Did you enjoy the gig?’ he said later.

‘Look. They’ve seen me now – OK? You’ve proved you can pull an older woman. Congratulations.’

‘I don’t get what you’re so cross about.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

‘You’re not being logical.’

She laughed and reached to wipe the steamed-up side window.

‘One word of advice, John. Don’t ever tell a woman that she’s not logical if you want to keep everything that belongs to you.’

‘But you’re not.’ He could feel spots of red burning on his cheeks. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way-’ She snorted. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way,’ he continued, ‘but I did pull you.’

She gave him a savage look and turned away.

‘I have to go,’ she said, staring out the side window. ‘Early start tomorrow.’

He glared at the side of her face. He was indignant.

‘Sure,’ he said, climbing out of the car and slamming the door behind him.

They got over it. And so it went. Two or three gigs a week, cash in hand. Seeing Barbara for sex a couple of times a week. Long days messing about.

By October his parents still hadn’t come home.

‘When’s Dad coming back?’ Hathaway said to Reilly one Saturday. He’d come to the office on the pier, to see Barbara really. He liked to see her all demure behind her desk, knowing what she got up to with him in the hotel and the car. She didn’t work Saturdays.

Hathaway had seen this old film, one of the two that had made Marlon Brando a star. On The Waterfront, made in black and white. And this corrupt union boss had an office in a wooden shack at the docks on a tiny pier. He often thought of that film when he visited his father at the end of the West Pier. His father’s office wasn’t in a shack but through the floorboards you could see the grey waters flopping between the iron stanchions below. Through the windows you just saw the sea. There was another room beyond that one, but Hathaway had never been in there.

‘Soon, John, soon,’ Reilly said. ‘He needs to. In his absence, people are starting to take the piss. You OK for money?’

Hathaway nodded.

‘I’m flush because of the money from the gigs as well. Though they’ve tailed off a bit. The landlord at our Sunday gig says he doesn’t want us anymore and we’ve lost a couple of others.’

‘Which pub is that?’ Reilly said.

‘The Gypsy, up on the Dyke Road. We’ve never got much of an audience so you can understand it.’

Reilly nodded.

‘Write down the names of the others for me but I think I know which they are.’

That Reilly should know puzzled Hathaway.

‘That housekeeper working out all right?’ Reilly continued.

Because Hathaway wasn’t exactly house-trained, Reilly had arranged for a woman off the estate to clean and cook for him. Hathaway wasn’t always in at regular mealtimes so she left stuff in the fridge to be heated up. She was wary at first – she’d never seen a fridge before.

Sometimes Hathaway couldn’t be bothered. Her cheese and onion pie eaten cold was fine but the steak and kidney got a bit congealed.

‘How do you know the pubs that aren’t booking us?’

Reilly stood and walked over to the window. He watched the turgid water.

‘Some of the pubs we look after have chosen to go with our competitors in your father’s absence.’

‘Look after? You mean with the one-armed bandits and that?’

Reilly nodded without turning.

‘And they happen to be the ones that aren’t booking us any more?’

Reilly turned and nodded again.

‘Probably.’

Hathaway left a few minutes later. As he made his way through the noisy amusement arcade next door – The Beatles’ ‘I Want To Hold Your Hand’ blared out above the cacophony of pings and bells – he saw Charlie over by one of the old slot machines.

It was called The Miser’s Dream. There was a little puppet of a miser with white hair and spectacles sitting at a table in the middle of a spooky old room. Charlie put a penny in the slot, and as Hathaway approached, the scene came to life. A door opened and a skeleton shot out; a picture slid back to reveal an ogre lurking behind it. A trunk opened of its own accord and a hooded creature started to climb out. All of this behind the miser’s back whilst he continued, oblivious, looking at his piles of money on the table.

‘You can keep your rigged one-armed bandits,’ Charlie said, by way of acknowledging Hathaway. ‘This is the one for me.’

‘Rigged?’

Charlie glanced at Hathaway.

‘No offence to your dad but every one-armed bandit in town is rigged so the odds are in the arcade’s favour. Always have been.’

Hathaway nodded. He was wary of Charlie, who had quite a short fuse. He liked him but he hadn’t known him as long as the other two in the group.

‘So we’re still on for the gig at the Snowdrop tonight?’ Charlie said. The Snowdrop was a pub on the edge of Lewes, down the end of the Cliffe High Street.

‘I said we’d be there for seven. Money’s not bad, and if it works out, it could become a regular.’

‘You know I’m from Lewes?’ Charlie said, looking at a worn penny that had a faded image of Queen Victoria on one side, which he’d fished out of his pocket to put into the slot.

Hathaway looked at the side of Charlie’s face, at the knotted jaw.

‘I remember you saying,’ he said.

‘Bloody hate the place. Bad memories. So excuse me in advance if I’m in a foul mood tonight.’

‘Would we know the difference?’ Hathaway said, stepping back quickly when Charlie mock-lunged at him.

The two had first met when Hathaway had advertised a few months earlier for a drummer for the group he wanted to start.

Charlie had turned up in Hathaway’s dad’s office on the end of the West Pier in full Teddy boy mode: the drape jacket with velvet lapels, the string tie, the brothel creepers.

‘What kind of music you going to be playing?’ he said, looking Hathaway up and down. ‘I ain’t doing any Cliff Richard or Pete Seeger.’

‘We’ll mix it up – Gene Vincent, Chuck Berry, Orbison, The Shads – whatever else is around that’s good.’

‘How old are you?’ Charlie said.

‘Nearly seventeen. You?’

‘Nineteen. That’s a good age for a drummer. Drummer has to hold it all together. Keep the beat. It takes maturity to do that.’

Charlie looked round.

‘What is this place?’

‘My dad’s. He owns this end of the pier. The firing range, the amusement arcade and the dodgems.’

Charlie nodded slowly.

‘It smells.’

Hathaway pointed down at the gaps between the floorboards to the water churning below.

‘It’s the sea.’

Charlie tilted his head.

‘You got a van?’

Hathaway shook his head. Charlie smirked.

‘I have. You’re going to need a van.’ He took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, patted the other one for matches. ‘What do you think about the Springfields?’

‘Mum and dad music.’

‘Acker Bilk?’

Charlie lit up.

‘The same. I hate trad jazz.’

‘I hate skiffle,’ Charlie said, blowing out smoke. ‘You haven’t got Joe Brown or Lonnie Donnegan lurking somewhere in the background, have you?’

Hathaway smiled again.

‘Are you from Brighton?’

Charlie shook his head.

‘Lewes originally. We’ve just moved down to Moulscombe.’

Hathaway waved an arm around.

‘We’ll rehearse here out of hours.’

‘I assume I can bring the van on to the pier – don’t fancy carting the drum kit from the pleasure gardens.’

‘You can.’

‘And is that just the two of us?’

‘I’ve got a couple of friends from school. A bass player and a vocalist. They couldn’t be here today.’

‘In detention?’

Hathaway grinned and after a moment so did Charlie.

‘Are they any good?’

Hathaway nodded.

‘Are you?’

Hathaway nodded again. Charlie pointed over at Hathaway’s guitar and amp.

‘Play us a tune, then.’

The Snowdrop was packed that evening, and Charlie, though quiet, seemed OK. At the first break an old friend of his came over, an unreconstructed Teddy boy.

‘This is Kevin,’ Charlie said. ‘We used to pal out until I moved to Brighton.’

Kevin looked awkward. He stared at his shoes as he said:

‘And turned into a mop-top.’

Charlie and Kevin went off to the corner of the bar for a drink, but Hathaway could tell by the way they were standing that the conversation was awkward.

It was snowing by the time they finished the gig so progress back into Brighton was slow. Once they’d dipped down off the Downs, Hathaway said:

‘Kevin an old friend, is he?’

‘More of an ex-friend, really. Not his fault. Just bad memories.’

The others glanced at each other but nobody said anything.

Charlie filled the silence:

‘My little brother died. Kevin and me were kind of implicated.’

Again nobody said anything until Hathaway said:

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘Yeah,’ the other two said, almost in unison.

They drove on past Falmer on their left.

‘We seem to be losing gigs,’ Dan said. ‘Don’t the pubs like the music?’

‘I think it’s to do with my dad,’ Hathaway said. ‘And his arrangements with the pubs for the one-armed bandits’

‘What do you mean?’ Charlie said, as a car overtook and pulled abruptly in front of him. It slowed, forcing Charlie to crunch his brakes.

‘Idiot,’ he muttered.

Hathaway said:

‘The pubs that aren’t using us are the pubs that aren’t using my dad’s machines any more. When he was away, they went elsewhere.’

‘Hang on,’ Charlie said. ‘Does that mean we’re getting these gigs in the first place because your father has influence? That it has nothing to do with talent?’

‘I think the link with Dad helps,’ Hathaway said.

Charlie was getting agitated.

‘I’m not getting this. I’m a bloody good drummer. That fucking Ringo Starr doesn’t compare-’ He pressed his foot hard on the brake again. ‘What the hell is going on here?’

The car in front now had a flashing light on its roof and its hazard lights winking as it slowed down even more. Hathaway looked in the side mirror.

‘There’s a cop car behind us too. Panda.’

‘If it’s trouble, I don’t want any tonight,’ Charlie said, crashing the gears.

The car in front guided them into a lay-by. The car behind followed.

‘What the hell do the rozzers want?’ Charlie said.

Four plain-clothes coppers spilled out of the unmarked car in front. Two bulky coppers came out of the panda. One of the plain-clothes cops wrenched open the passenger door and waved a warrant card at the occupants. He took a deep breath and breathed out.

‘I’m smelling something illegal. You darkies in disguise, are you?’

The back door of the van was wrenched open.

‘What do you know – it’s a bloody pop group.’

This from a red-faced, sour-mouthed sergeant whose white helmet scarcely fitted his enormous head.

‘What’s the problem?’ Dan said.

‘I think you want to say “Sir”.’

‘He definitely wants to say “Sir”.’ Another copper loomed behind the first. He too sniffed loudly. ‘Smells like the casbah in here – or Notting Hill. Want to get out and empty your pockets, gents?

Hathaway looked around at what was going on. He wasn’t worried about drugs – though they’d heard about cannabis, none of the band had tried it yet – he was curious about the reason for the police picking on them.

‘What do you want?’ Charlie said to the plain-clothes man.

‘We have reason to believe there are drugs in this vehicle and we therefore intend to search it.’

‘We don’t do drugs,’ Dan said. ‘But feel free to search.’

The policeman cocked an eye into the back of the van.

‘Bit of a clutter back there. You’d better get your stuff out.’

‘Our stuff?’

‘All of it.’

The snow turned to sleet halfway through the unloading of the vehicle. The policemen in uniform and the plain-clothes coppers were standing at the side of the road under the shelter of the trees.

‘Bastards,’ Charlie muttered as he lugged the big amps out. When the van was empty and the sleet had become rain that was really pelting down, the policemen gave it a cursory glance.

‘OK – our mistake. On your way.’

‘Are you going to help us put the stuff back in – it’s pissing it down.’

‘Language,’ the red-faced sergeant said, wagging his finger. ‘That’s not our job, lads. We’re crime-busters.’ He touched a finger to his helmet. ‘Evening all. Oh and sonny -’ he pointed his finger at Hathaway – ‘tell your dad Sergeant Finch says hello.’

Hathaway and the others watched them go as the rain rattled on their gear.

Charlie was looking for something – or somebody – to kick.

‘Fucking bastards!’ He turned on Hathaway. ‘So we’ve got your dad to thank for this. Again.’

Billy and Dan looked away.

‘And for a gig with Duane Eddy when he comes to Brighton.’

Charlie gave a double take.

‘You’re bloody kidding me!’

Hathaway grinned.

‘I’m serious. One of my dad’s contacts.’

Charlie did a little jig. The other two looked bemused.

‘Do you think we could talk about it out of the rain?’ Billy said.

‘Supporting Duane Eddy,’ Charlie said. ‘Well, this is it. The start of the big time.’

‘It’s only supporting,’ Hathaway said. ‘We’re not topping the bill with him.’

‘And he is past his best,’ Dan said.

‘Bugger off. I suppose you think the Everlys are over the hill.’

Charlie started putting stuff back into the van.

‘Well, I’d like to meet your dad – he obviously moves in interesting circles. One minute he’s pally with the rozzers, the next they’re pulling us over.’

Hathaway was thinking the same thing.

On the Bank Holiday weekend, Hathaway went with Dan, Billy and Charlie on to the Palace Pier. The smell of hot dogs, chips, burgers and candy floss thickened the air. After the dodgems and the rifle range, they queued for the helter-skelter, mats in hand.

‘Did you read about that bloke Tony Mancini?’ Dan said. ‘Confessed that he did it.’

‘Did what?’ Charlie said, watching a couple of girls eating candy floss walk by.

Hathaway was watching an old woman hobbling along in a headscarf with a see-through plastic rain hat over it. It was a bright, sunny day.

‘He’s the Brighton Trunk Murderer,’ Hathaway said. ‘Killed his mistress in 1934, stuck her in a trunk that he carted around for six weeks. She was a prossie, he was her pimp. Went to trial in Lewes and got off. Now he’s admitted he did it.’

The others looked at him.

‘What? All I did was read the paper.’

‘There were two Trunk Murders, though, John,’ a voice from the other side of the cordon beside the queue said.

It was Sean Reilly, in his cavalry twill and check sports jacket.

‘The first was never solved. Victim never identified because her head and arms were missing, so the killer was never tracked down.’

‘Mr Reilly-’

‘Sean.’

‘You’re on the wrong pier, aren’t you?’

Reilly smiled.

‘Business meeting.’ He looked at Hathaway’s friends. ‘These gents are the rest of your group, aren’t they?’

‘Meet The Avalons,’ Charlie said, gesturing at the others. ‘Supporting Duane Eddy soon.’

Reilly nodded.

‘I heard. And I believe my living-room suite has the same name.’

The boys looked at him, then at Billy, who was blushing furiously. Reilly caught their looks. ‘It’s a superior sort of suite, mind.’

He nodded to Billy, Charlie and Dan.

‘Gents. I’m Sean Reilly. I work with John’s father. Enjoy yourselves.’

He waved them off as the queue shuffled forward.

‘I thought we were named after some King Arthur thing,’ Charlie hissed at Billy. ‘But we’re named after a fucking settee?’

‘And two armchairs,’ Billy said.

The others looked at him, then Dan said:

‘Well, that accounts for three of us – what’s the other one?’

‘As long as I’m not a pouffe,’ Charlie said sourly, and they all laughed, including, last as always, Charlie.

‘I suppose I’d better be that,’ Billy said, ‘in the circumstances.’

‘Too right,’ Charlie said, and they laughed again, Billy limiting himself to a tight smile.

As Hathaway climbed the steps at the back of the giant slide, he could see Reilly making his slow progress down the pier. A couple of other men joined him fifty yards along and they walked together back to the promenade. Hathaway looked to the pier offices as he stood poised at the top of the helter skelter.

A tall, thin man was standing in the doorway watching Reilly go. A look of utter hate on his face.