Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

‘Don’t kill anybody, Charlie,’ Reilly called.

‘Don’t intend to,’ Charlie shouted back, his voice trembling. ‘Just gonna mess ’em up a bit.’

He swung the knife at the man nearest to him with a long sweep of his arm. The man fell back against the bench, and Charlie slashed at the hand that held a pickaxe handle. The man grunted and dropped his weapon as a thick line of blood blossomed on his hand. Charlie picked up the stave with his free hand and cracked it hard against the man’s head. Hathaway heard something break.

Hathaway was dithering. He wasn’t afraid and he was armed, but he wasn’t quite sure what to do. Whacking somebody with his lump of wood could do severe damage.

Reilly dead-armed a short, broad-shouldered man with a hard blow to his elbow. The man dropped his stave, and Reilly picked it up and decked him with it. He moved to support Dennis Hathaway, holding off two men with wild swings of his stave. But more men tumbled into the room and Reilly had to swerve to avoid one man’s lunge. Three men backed him into a corner.

Two of Hathaway’s men were on the ground getting a good kicking. The man with the chair, backed into a corner, was holding his own.

There were four men on Hathaway’s dad now, and he was taking some blows on his arms and body, though he was defending his head. He was roaring. Charlie had pocketed his knife and was fending off two men with wild swings of the pickaxe handle. He looked enraged.

Nobody was taking any notice of Hathaway. He was aware of screams and crashes in the amusement arcade next door. He clutched the stave like a kendo stick, his hands body-width apart, and went for the men attacking his father.

He hit one of the men from behind in the angle of shoulder and neck with a downward swing, then brought the other end of the stave up to clip him just behind the angle of the jaw.

The attacker fell against the man next to him. Then a third turned from his father, swinging a stave above his head. Hathaway slid his stave through his hands, extended it in his right and thrust hard into the man’s solar plexus. The man doubled up, and Hathaway brought the stave down again between neck and shoulder.

Hathaway heard a commotion, then a gun went off – so loud his hearing immediately went. Tommy was in the doorway, a rifle pointed at the ceiling. Two amusement arcade workers, also armed, flanked him. Everyone froze except Charlie, who was beating the bejesus out of a man curled up on the floor. Reilly grabbed him from behind and Charlie swung round, snarling.

‘He’s had enough, Charlie,’ Reilly said. ‘Charlie. Enough.’

Charlie slowly nodded, his breath ragged. Reilly gave a little salute to Hathaway. Dennis Hathaway kicked the man his son had knocked to the floor.

‘Right, get these guys tied to chairs in the back room.’ He leaned down whilst kicking the man again. ‘You’ve got some explaining to do or you won’t get any tea.’

‘Somehow,’ muttered Reilly to Hathaway, ‘I don’t think tea is on the cards anyway.’

By the time Sergeant Finch turned up with half a dozen beat coppers, the amusement arcade had been put back together. A few machines had been smashed, a lot of glass needed sweeping up.

Finch looked around, then at Dennis Hathaway. Sniffed the air.

‘Love that sea smell. Heard there was trouble up this end of the pier. Report of gunfire.’

‘Few tearaways messing about. We sorted them.’

‘Where are they now?’ Finch said.

Dennis Hathaway shrugged.

‘Gone for a swim, I think.’

The dozen or so men who’d invaded the pier had all been thrown over the side after Dennis Hathaway had done questioning them.

‘Can they swim?’ Finch said.

Dennis Hathaway sucked his teeth.

‘Most of them.’

Finch took off his helmet and wiped the inside with a handkerchief.

‘And the gunfire?’

‘I run a rifle range, Finchie; even you must have noticed that.’

Finch tilted his head.

‘You should be more careful shaving, Dennis.’

‘How’s that?’

Finch pointed at Dennis Hathaway’s shirt. It was streaked with blood. Dennis Hathaway grunted.

‘And they call them safety razors.’

Finch put his helmet back on.

‘OK, then. The chief constable might want a word about this. He likes a happy town; you know that.’

‘We’re happy,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘We’re very happy.’

Finch gave a small smile.

‘Be seeing you, Dennis.’

‘Grab yourself a candy floss on the way out. All of you. On the house.’

Hathaway and Charlie cracked up when that was exactly what they did. Seven plods in crumpled shirts and white helmets, and a pile of gear hanging off their belts, waddling down the pier with pink candy floss stuck to their chops.

Dennis Hathaway looked at Reilly, his son and Charlie.

‘Right, we got some planning to do. Reilly, let’s go to your place.’

Hathaway was driving an Austin Healey these days. Charlie still preferred his motorbike but left it on the pier and took a lift with his friend. They didn’t speak at first.

Things had been strained between them ever since Dawn’s pregnancy. The day after Dawn had told Hathaway about Charlie, he’d gone to confront the drummer. He’d tracked him down in a coffee bar under the arches near the Palace Pier.

‘What the fuck have you been playing at?’ he said, standing over Charlie.

Charlie indicated the seat opposite him and blew into his coffee.

‘This is the cafe where Tony Mancini worked as a bouncer back in the thirties. The Trunk Murderer?’

‘I know who Tony Mancini was. What’s that got to do with you putting my sister up the duff?’

‘Sit down, Johnny, for God’s sake. You’re looking a right prat.’

Charlie saw Hathaway’s fists clench.

‘Johnny, think carefully about what you do next. If you start something, it won’t stop. You know that about me. I don’t stop.’

Hathaway had dragged Charlie off enough people to know that was true. He slumped down in the seat opposite Charlie.

‘I’m sorry about what happened with Dawn. It was just boy and girl stuff. I didn’t take advantage of her. I like her.’

‘So you’re going to marry her?’

‘Fuck sake, Johnny, I’m not the marrying kind.’

‘My dad expects you to marry her.’

‘Does he know it’s me?’

Hathaway shook his head.

‘Not yet.’

‘I think she should get rid of it,’ Charlie said.

Hathaway thrust his head forward.

‘You want my sister to go through an abortion? You scum.’

Charlie watched Hathaway’s expression.

‘I bet that’s what your dad wants too.’

‘What about what Dawn wants?’

‘Well, she can’t want me as a husband if she’s got any sense.’

Hathaway leaned back.

‘Well, she obviously hasn’t got any sense to be with you in the first place.’

They both looked at the table. Charlie blew on his coffee.

‘Did you do it just to spite me?’ Hathaway said.

Charlie looked puzzled.

‘Why would I want to spite you? We’re mates, aren’t we?’

Hathaway looked at him, then away.

‘Aren’t we?’

‘Yeah,’ Hathaway said. ‘Forget I said that.’

Under pressure from her father and Charlie, Dawn had the abortion in Hove. Hathaway took her to a posh house in a Regency terrace. The doctor was Egyptian and elderly. Dawn had seen Alfie and was terrified the abortion was going to be a coat-hanger job like in the film, but Dr Massiah’s rooms were spick and span. Despite his age, Massiah obviously knew what he was doing.

Dawn was living back at home now. She’d given up her secretarial course. She stayed at home most of the time, her mother fluttering around her. She wept a lot.