Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

‘Dad?’

‘You keep out of this, John.’

‘But, Dad-’

His father turned on him, his big fists clenched. His feet were planted a yard apart. His tree trunk legs made him look immovable.

‘Do you want some too?’

‘Dad, she’s a girl. She’s Dawn.’

‘She’s a tart, is what she is.’ Dennis Hathaway looked more intently at his son. ‘Do you know about this?’

‘About what?’

‘Your sister’s got a bun in the bloody oven, that’s what.’

Hathaway looked at his sister, her hands now over her face. She was sobbing.

‘So?’ he said.

His father took a step closer, his face reddening.

‘So? That my daughter has been sleeping around is bad enough, but that they haven’t been using johnnies is bloody diabolical.’

‘I haven’t been sleeping around,’ she stumbled out between sobs.

‘Haven’t you? Is this the miraculous conception, then?’

‘I’ve only slept with one person. I love him.’

‘You’re a kid for fuck’s sake. What do you know about love?’

Dawn sat up on the sofa.

‘A lot more than you – the way you treat Mum.’

Dennis Hathaway loomed over her again. She shrank into the cushions.

‘I’ve never laid a hand on your mother. Never. Even though she’d try the patience of a saint.’

Dawn kept her eyes down.

‘There’s more to love than that,’ she said sullenly.

Hathaway slid on to the sofa beside her and put his arm round her. Their father looked down at the both of them.

‘If you love him you must be proud of him, and if you’re proud why won’t you tell me who he is?’

‘I’m not telling you who he is because you’ll do something to him.’

‘I’ll do something to him if you don’t tell me who he is.’

‘Where’s Mum?’ Hathaway said.

‘Bingo,’ his father said. ‘She’s got this to look forward to.’

The telephone rang. Dennis Hathaway looked from one to the other of them, his fists still clenched.

‘Of all the bloody days to hear this,’ he said, walking over to the phone and snatching it up. ‘What?’

He listened for a minute then put the phone down. He hurried over to the front door.

‘I’ll be back,’ he called over his shoulder.

In the silence following the slamming of the door, Hathaway said:

‘Why didn’t you tell Mum first so she could prepare the ground?’

‘Have you seen her lately?’ Dawn said. ‘She’s having one of her times. She’s in la-la land.’

‘When’s it due?’

‘Not for ages – I’m only about six weeks.’

Hathaway looked at his sister.

‘Are you pleased?’

She smiled. ‘Well, you know.’

‘What about this bloke, whoever he is?’

‘What about him?’

‘Does he know?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is he pleased?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Is he going to stand by you?’

She laughed.

‘Stand by me? You sound like a Victorian parent.’

‘Is he?’

‘Of course.’

‘You’re going to have it, then?’

‘Dad wants me to have an abortion. Knows this doctor in Hove. Abortionist to high society, he says, as if that matters.’

‘Who is the father?’

‘Will you tell Dad?’

‘He’ll have to find out sooner or later.’

Dawn leaned into Hathaway.

‘Will you tell him?’

‘No.’

She kissed his cheek. ‘Thanks.’

‘But you’ll have to tell him.’

She stood up and looked down on Hathaway, a coy look on her blotched face. It was a disconcerting combination.

‘You know him, actually.’

Hathaway raised an eyebrow.

‘That’s my Saint look. I’ve been practising.’

‘You’re a good-looking boy but Roger Moore you’re not.’

Hathaway shrugged.

‘So who is it?’

Dawn walked over to the French windows and looked out into the garden. Without turning round she said:

‘It’s Charlie.’

Hathaway was half-watching The Avengers when his father came back in. He’d been thinking about Charlie and Dawn together. Getting angry.

‘Where’s your sister?’

Hathaway kept his eyes on the screen.

‘Gone to bed in her old bedroom.’

‘Did she tell your mum?’

‘She’s already knitting socks.’

Dennis Hathaway smiled grudgingly.

‘I suppose if they get married straightaway it can be a honeymoon conception. She said she wasn’t far along.’

‘Six weeks. But, Dad, I have to ask – given our line of business, why do you care so much about the proprieties?’

The smile went.

‘You want to be uncle to a bastard?’

‘I don’t care.’

‘I’m hoping she won’t have it. I’ve suggested a doctor I know in Hove.’

‘Dawn said.’

‘Has she told you whose it is?’

Hathaway nodded.

‘And?’

‘It’s for Dawn to tell you.’

His father looked at him for a long moment but not with hostility.

‘OK. This has come at a bad time. There’s a lot going on. You know that.’

‘What happened with the twins?’

Hathaway pinched the end of his nose and sucked in air. He sighed.

‘Johnny boy, it’s war.’

‘ We’re moving up in the world, Johnny boy. Bought a place on Tongdean Drive. You’re welcome to move with us. Dawn is. But I thought you might like a flat of your own. Got a nice one available overlooking the West Pier. Penthouse with a balcony.’

‘A penthouse?’ Hathaway said.

‘OK – a top-floor flat – but with a balcony to sit in the sunshine. And we can semaphore each other from pier to penthouse.’

Hathaway was excited at the thought, largely for sexual reasons. The group was getting a lot of interest from local girls but he had nowhere to take them. It felt seedy retiring to the back of the van, especially as the others were striking lucky too. Well, except Billy, who seemed to draw only earnest young men wanting to talk music.

‘I can stand on my own two feet,’ Hathaway said. His father looked steadily at him.

‘I know that, Johnny, but do it for your mother.’ He leaned forward and put his elbow on the table. ‘Come on, son, I’ll arm-wrestle you for it.’

Hathaway groaned and put his Coke down. His father was a good six inches shorter but he was sturdy and he had powerful arms. Hathaway’s longer forearms put him at a disadvantage because he had to start with a bent arm. He’d worked out the physics of it once.

‘I may as well just say “Yes” now.’

‘That’s always the best way with me,’ his father said.

The buzzer went off from the cashiers in the amusement hall and, a moment later, from the firing range. Reilly was sitting by the window with three foot-soldiers and Charlie.

‘Look lively,’ his father said, immediately out of his chair. They heard a clattering of feet on the other side of the office door, then it burst open and a man with a stocking over his head rushed through, a pickaxe handle in his hand.

Reilly had somehow moved, without any appearance of haste, into a position just behind the door. As the man went past him Reilly leaned forward and, with an almost delicate flip of the wrist, sapped him behind his right ear. The man sprawled forward, his wooden stave rattling across the floor ahead of him.

Dennis Hathaway picked it up and threw it to his son.

‘Stay out of it but use this if you have to defend yourself.’

A half-dozen other men came roaring through the door with stocking masks and pickaxe handles.

Reilly stepped back and Dennis Hathaway moved to one side, dragging his own lead-filled cosh out of his pocket. Two of his men also had coshes; the third picked up a chair and prodded the legs at the man who was charging him. Charlie was on his feet with a flick knife in his hand, moving forward, focused.