Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

‘Cheers, son.’

His father took a swig, Hathaway a sip. The whisky burned.

‘Tell me about the brothels,’ Hathaway said.

‘What brothels?’

‘Your brothels.’

‘Our brothels, you mean. That’s a long story.’

‘And the teenage prostitutes.’

Dennis Hathaway put his glass down.

‘What has Barbara been telling you? And what is she doing over here, by the way?’

Barbara had looked thinner, older. Much older. Worn.

‘Hello, John,’ she said. Her voice was the same.

Hathaway felt himself flush. As he stood awkwardly, Barbara came over and reached up to kiss him on the mouth. Her lips were dry and her breath was sour. Hathaway looked down at her, then over at Simpson.

‘This really is the rough stuff, Chief Constable.’

Simpson smiled.

‘Not at all. It’s what in America is now known as a reality check.’

‘The reality being?’

‘Your father is running women and young boys and girls for prostitution in Brighton.’

Hathaway looked at Barbara. He was surprised to feel his heart beating at an odd rhythm.

‘That’s not good,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know about the teenagers.’

‘Fuck good,’ Simpson said. ‘All I care about is that these are my areas that your father is impinging on. I control the teen sex. In fact, I control all the brothels.’ He walked over to Barbara and cupped her chin in his hand. ‘Which is where our Barbara comes in.’

‘Get your hands off her.’

Simpson dropped his hand and stepped back, smiling.

‘Steady, John. Barbara, tell this innocent about the brothels you run with his father’s business partners in Antwerp and The Hague. And the little import-export business you have going.’

Hathaway looked at Barbara. He couldn’t read her face. Her expression was cold but pained.

‘Tell me.’

‘I send youngsters to work for your father over here from the Continent and back to the Continent from here.’

Hathaway looked at her for a long, long moment.

‘You’re kidding me, right?’

Simpson coughed.

‘I’m afraid not, John. Barbara here is a whoremonger – and indeed, a whore, though that’s by the by.’

‘You’re a prostitute? Dad said-’

‘You didn’t know, Johnny?’ Simpson said. He pretended to stifle a yawn. ‘Dearie me.’

‘I wasn’t when-’

Hathaway stood.

‘Why is she here?’

‘Well, she’s here because she needs treatment for cancer, but I’m afraid that isn’t going to stop her going to prison for a very long time, unless your father lets me in. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want that on your conscience.’

Hathaway looked from one to the other, his heart still racing.

‘I’ll get back to you,’ he said, stepping out of the room.

‘She’s here for cancer treatment,’ Hathaway said. ‘And Philip Simpson is threatening to put her in prison unless you stop what you’re up to.’

He told his father about his meeting with Simpson. When he’d finished, his father said:

‘You’ve heard about the law of supply and demand.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning we’re in the supply business. We supply what people want. And, as it happens, men want women. Does that come as a surprise to you?’

‘The kids, Dad. I was talking about the teenagers.’

‘Well, that’s a specialized market, in theory, but you’d be surprised how many men like them young. Girls and boys. And not just the over-twelves, so you know. Infant schoolkids.’

‘That’s disgusting. And how could you make such a fuss about that young lad being murdered by a perv then provide them for other pervs?’

‘That’s complicated – it was rape and murder for one thing. But I draw the line at the under-twelves. And correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t your pop groups have groupies around that age? Do they think twice about having sex with them?’ Hathaway’s father took another swig of his drink. ‘Do you?’

‘I’ve never-’

‘I don’t care if you have or not. What I do might be distasteful to you, but I wouldn’t be doing it if there wasn’t a market. Supply and demand.’

Hathaway leaned back.

‘OK. So this is the family business.’ He looked up and away. Finished his drink in one. ‘What about Barbara?’

‘I’m sorry to hear about her illness. I wish she’d told me. As for prison, I’ll have a word with Simpson. Are you going to see her again?’

Hathaway took a long drink of the whisky.

‘Probably not.’

Simpson hadn’t stopped Hathaway leaving but Barbara had come after him.

‘Johnny!’ she called down corridor after corridor as he sped away without looking back. And the last thing he heard her shout, her voice breaking: ‘Like father, like son – you’re just as big a bastard as your dad.’

He glanced across at his father.

‘Mephistopholes,’ a voice called from the bar. Reilly was leaning there, his hand held out. Des put a glass in it and Reilly sauntered over. He grabbed a chair and in one fluid movement sat down and reached for the bottle.

‘Who he?’ Hathaway said.

‘You didn’t know Sean was a scholar, did you, Johnny? But he is. He is. So who’s this Mephy guy?’

‘Mephistopholes. He tempted Dr Faustus with the promise of anything he wanted in return for his soul.’

‘Oh yeah – Liz Taylor got them out on stage somewhere a couple of years ago playing Helen of Troy. Would have liked to have seen that.’ He looked at his son. ‘No offence to your mother.’

Hathaway ignored his father.

‘So what?’ he said to Reilly.

‘Your father is offering you everything you want in return for your soul.’

‘Not exactly,’ Hathaway said. ‘We’re having a different conversation.’

Reilly looked at Dennis Hathaway.

‘But that’s the conversation we were going to have. And Sean’s poetical,’ Hathaway’s father said. ‘Has these odd ideas. A literary man.’

Hathaway looked at Reilly.

‘You mean I should ignore the fact that the family business exploits children.’

‘Exploits children?’ Hathaway’s father shook his head. ‘We’re providing a service, I told you. Every bit of business we do – all of it – is providing a service.’

Hathaway looked from his father to Reilly. Reilly gave him a little smile and poured a glass of the Canadian Club.

‘I believe this is known as the tipping point, Johnny. For you, that is. You can walk away from the family business or you can embrace it. In its entirety.’

‘I’m not getting any younger,’ Hathaway’s father said. ‘Next year I’d like to hand things over. Your mum’s not well, as you know. I’d like to retire with her to Spain. You know we’ve got some properties there.’

Hathaway reached for the bottle. He looked at his father. He looked at Reilly. He poured himself a drink. He topped up his father. Reilly shook his head when Hathaway tried to pour him a drink.

Hathaway sat back. He looked over at Des, who was pretending not to listen at the bar. He gestured around the Victorian auditorium.

‘Not exactly the top of the mountain looking down on the world.’

‘So you do know Dr Faustus,’ Reilly said.

Hathaway looked at him.

‘I know the Bible,’ he said. He gestured to his father. ‘Obligatory Sunday school.’

‘It can all be yours,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘You can be a Prince of the City.’

Hathaway looked down at his hands. Clenched them. Said just one word.

‘King.’

‘What is this – fucking Prohibition all over again?’ Some days later Dennis Hathaway was looking at Charlie and Hathaway dressed like thirties gangsters in wide-lapelled, baggy-trousered striped suits. ‘I can see Bonnie but which one is Clyde?’