Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

Gordon Goody had been arrested around the same time.

‘He was lying low at his mum’s in Putney, then went up to see that beauty queen in Leicester. His smudge isn’t in the paper, his fingerprints are nowhere in the farmhouse. But the receptionist at the hotel where he’s booked a room to get his leg-over thinks he’s Bruce bloody Reynolds because of the glasses he’s wearing. She’s seen Bruce’s smudge in the paper. What are the bloody chances? And, of course, once the coppers have got their hooks in him, that’s it.’

‘They fitted him up?’ Dennis Hathaway said. The man nodded.

‘They were spinning his place when just his old mam was there. That’s not on. They did an illegal search in a room he was using over a pub and claimed to find paint from the farm on his shoes. They put it there, of course.’

The others in the group were all listening but nobody was commenting. Indeed, Hathaway was struck by their silence. McVicar suddenly barged in:

‘Who’s the nutty woman in the yellow dress in the kitchen? She’s got bats in her belfry, you ask me. Doo lally bloody pip.’

Hathaway’s father pursed his lips. After a moment’s silence, Reilly produced two cigars from his pocket.

‘Mr McVicar. You look like a man who enjoys a cigar. Come and smoke one with me. I want to talk to you about a bit of business. Outside, though – Dennis’s wife doesn’t mind cigarette smoke in the house but draws the line at cigars and pipes. Plus, it’s a bit more private.’

McVicar looked surprised.

‘Bit more freezing, too.’

One of the twins whispered something in his ear.

‘OK, then,’ he said to both Reilly and the twin. As Reilly led the way, the twins looked at Hathaway’s father. Did Hathaway imagine it or did the same twin who’d whispered in McVicar’s ear give the slightest of nods? Hathaway’s father excused himself.

The twins looked at Hathaway but didn’t say anything. Hathaway retreated to the kitchen.

The two women who had trapped Hathaway before were washing-up. There was a bag of rubbish beside them. Before they could snare him again, he picked it up.

‘I’ll take this out to the dustbins,’ he said.

They smiled and carried on chattering.

It was cold outside and slippery in the passage beside the house. He put the bag in the dustbin then walked down the passage to the back garden. Sean Reilly stepped in front of him, an unlit cigar in his hand.

‘Where’s McVicar?’ Hathaway said before he became aware of the grunts. He looked past Reilly to see his father, red-faced, kicking a shape huddled in the snow. He heard his father gasp between kicks:

‘You need… to keep… a polite… fucking… tongue… in your… fucking… head.’

Hathaway watched in horrified fascination as his father continued to kick McVicar. McVicar wasn’t moving. He wasn’t making any sound. All Hathaway could hear was his father’s jagged breath and the thud of his foot making contact with McVicar’s prone body.

‘He’s going to kill him,’ Hathaway said hoarsely.

‘Just a lesson in manners,’ Reilly said.

Dennis Hathaway only stopped when he ran out of puff. He finished by stamping on McVicar’s head then bent at the waist beside the motionless form and sucked in air. Hathaway could see the blood spreading in the snow. Dennis Hathaway turned his head towards Reilly without seeing his son.

‘Get this garbage off my bloody lawn.’

‘Dad,’ Hathaway called out. ‘What have you done?’

His father straightened up.

‘It’s all about respect, son. If there’s no respect, there’s nothing.’

‘But, Dad, look what you’ve done.’

His father looked down at the heap in the snow.

‘What? This?’ His father seemed puzzled. ‘This is nothing.’

But to Hathaway it was everything.

For the next few days, Hathaway was in turmoil. He’d seen his father angry often, but never the animal fury as he was trying to kick McVicar to death. And Hathaway had no doubt that’s what his father had intended. Hathaway was repelled by the violence. At the same time, he knew there was something in him that was drawn to that kind of barbarity. He knew he had his own dark places. He knew that if he allowed himself to unleash it, he had his father’s temper.

Then there was Barbara. He waited to hear from her but didn’t. He tried phoning her at the office on the pier but she was never there.

On the fourth day, he went to the pier. It was bright outside but the wind cut at his face like knives. He pulled the hood up on his duffel coat, even though he thought it made him look like a gnome.

The shooting gallery was boarded up for the winter but the amusement arcade was doing desultory business. Reilly was in the office with an unfamiliar woman. There were half a dozen paraffin heaters burning round the room. Two were on either side of the woman’s desk.

‘Your dad’s not here, John,’ Reilly said. ‘He’s in London. Gone up to see Freddie Mills at his club.’

Hathaway liked Mills. He’d never seen him box but he’d laughed at him in the couple of films he’d made. He’d met him with his father in Brighton. He’d even competed with him at the shooting gallery outside. Best of five. Hathaway had won but guessed that Mills had let him.

‘That’s OK,’ Hathaway said, ‘I was just passing.’

Reilly stretched his neck to look out of the window at the water, as if to ask, ‘Passing on to where?’ He smiled and indicated the woman at the other desk.

‘This is Rita. She’s taken over from Barbara.’

‘Hello.’ Hathaway forced a smile on to his face. ‘Has Barbara gone, then?’

Reilly nodded.

‘Got a job abroad,’ he said, looking down at his desk.

‘That was sudden.’

Reilly shrugged.

‘Opportunity came up and she took it.’ He stood. ‘The trial will be over soon.’

Hathaway knew Reilly was referring to the Great Train Robbery trial. It had begun at the end of January and nineteen people were in the dock. Others were still on the run with warrants out for their arrests.

‘Roger Cordrey is the only one who has pleaded guilty,’ Reilly said. ‘His mate Bill is going to get screwed.’

‘How come?’ Hathaway said, intrigued despite his upset about Barbara’s abrupt departure.

‘Cordrey is refusing to implicate anyone else and everyone else is pleading not guilty. Whatever Cordrey says about Bill Boal’s lack of involvement needs corroboration. But since everybody else is denying they had any involvement with the robbery, there is nobody to say he had nothing to do with it. Boal is screwed.’

‘You know him?’ Hathaway said.

‘From the racetrack,’ Reilly said.

Hathaway glanced at Rita and lowered his voice.

‘How’s that bloke? McVicar?’

‘He’ll mend. Eventually.’

‘Won’t he want to get his own back?’

Reilly drew him to the window. A flock of seagulls skirled in the gusts of wind. The sea was boisterous, huge swells rising and dipping.

‘People react to bad beatings in different ways, but more often than not it breaks their spirit. He was all mouth.’

‘You know the type?’

‘I’ve been around them most of my life.’

Hathaway went closer to Reilly.

‘Is my dad a gangster?’

‘You’d be best asking him questions like that.’

‘Would he answer?’

‘No idea,’ Reilly said.

‘Did he send Barbara away?’

Reilly smiled again.

‘You’d be best asking him questions like that.’

Sean Reilly was at the Duane Eddy gig. He stood out like a sore thumb, smartly dressed and two decades older than anybody else. He was with a group of men at the bar.