Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

As Charlie ploughed into them, Hathaway looked at Dan and Bill and pulled his Fender Stratocaster over his head.

‘Bugger,’ he said, laying the guitar carefully down.

Hathaway had been in his share of scraps. His father had taught him the rudiments of boxing but he’d taken up judo when he was fourteen and moved up the grades pretty quickly.

The Ted who’d thrown the coins was out of his seat and heading straight for Hathaway. Hathaway knew exactly what to do. He was going to grab the man by his velvet lapels, nut him, then do a backward roll, plant his feet in his stomach and use his opponent’s weight to send him over his shoulders on to the floor behind him.

That was the theory. But when he grabbed the Ted’s lapels he felt something slice into his fingers. He let go and saw the blood a moment before the Ted nutted him. He managed to turn his head to avoid getting a broken nose but the man’s hard forehead hit him with a loud crack against his cheekbone and eye socket.

Dazed, Hathaway could do nothing as the man followed it up with a kick to the shin that indicated there was some kind of steel toecap inside his suede brothel creepers. The man grabbed Hathaway’s own lapels, pulled him towards him and nutted him again. This time the nose went. Hathaway keeled over.

Charlie had gone under in a welter of flailing fists and feet. Dan and Bill, neither of them scrappers, hadn’t even really got started. The smallest of the Teds had hit Dan on the side of the head with a bottle that, thankfully, didn’t smash. Bill had slumped to the floor after a kick between the legs.

They could do nothing as five of the Teddy boys wrecked their gear. The sixth, the smallest, stood over Hathaway. He was unbuttoning his fly when the big one pulled him away. He leaned over Hathaway, who was trying to breath through his mouth as blood poured down his throat.

‘Listen, Hank Marvin,’ he said. ‘If your dad ever comes home again, tell him this pub ain’t his anymore.’

Then the six teddy boys sauntered out of the room.

‘What did he mean about the pub not being your dad’s any more?’ Bill said, as the four of them sat in the emergency room of the hospital.

Hathaway shrugged, holding a wadded cloth to his nose. His fingers stung. In his eagerness to use his judo move he’d forgotten that Teddy boys habitually sewed razor blades behind their jacket lapels so that nobody could grab them to nut them.

‘Something to do with the one-armed bandits?’ he said, his voice thick.

One of his dad’s various businesses was leasing one-armed bandits to pubs and clubs along the south coast. He had his own machines in his amusement arcade on the end of the West Pier.

‘I borrowed the money off my dad for that drum kit,’ Charlie said. ‘He’ll go mental.’

‘I don’t even want to think what the Strat cost my dad,’ Hathaway said.

Two nurses came over. They looked disapproving.

‘We’ll see you all together,’ one of them said. ‘And afterwards a policeman will want a word.’

Two hours later, Hathaway was home. His hands were bandaged and his nose had been reset. He had a lump like a goose egg on his shin and he felt about a hundred. He wanted to telephone Barbara but he didn’t know her number. He didn’t really know her home circumstances. He thought she might be married but he hadn’t liked to ask – he didn’t want to spoil what was going on. He’d noticed a faint white mark on her ring finger, as if she took off her wedding ring before she met him. And although she sometimes met him late in the evening, she never stayed the night.

He sat on the sofa listening to Please Please Me on his parent’s radiogram, thinking about Barbara. He’d had girlfriends before but he’d been a virgin until that Sunday. She’d been patient with him. She’d seemed sad and, when he asked to see her again, anxious. But she’d agreed. Since then she’d taught him things. The evening she’d asked if he’d like her to French him had been a revelation.

She didn’t like to come round to the house because she didn’t want the neighbours talking, but there was a hotel she knew on the seafront down towards Hove that they’d gone to once. She paid for the room.

He was modest enough to wonder what this glamorous older woman saw in him, but he was arrogant enough not to worry about it. He was dying to brag to his friends but she’d pleaded with him not to. She said she’d feel embarrassed.

That was why she wouldn’t go out anywhere with him, though he wanted her to come and see the group. The only time they had gone on a date was to a late-night screening of some Hammer horror film. They’d sat in the back row and, of course, he couldn’t keep his hands off her. She’d unbuttoned his trousers and used her hand on him.

Although he was in pain, just thinking about her now got him excited. He had trouble sleeping that night.

On Saturday, the doorbell woke Hathaway. He tried to ignore it but it persisted. He put on his dressing gown and slippers and padded down the stairs. He hoped it might be Barbara. He picked up the newspaper lying on the doormat.

He squinted in the glare of the sun when he opened the door.

‘Good grief, Johnny. You’ve been in the wars, I see.’

‘Mr Reilly.’

‘Sean, please. Do you mind if I come in for a moment?’

Sean Reilly was, as far as Hathaway could figure it, a kind of Mr Fix It for his father. Hathaway wasn’t clear exactly what his father did – he wasn’t interested actually – but whenever there was a problem he called on Reilly.

Reilly was middle-aged, in his mid-forties judging by the way he’d mentioned seeing action with his father in World War Two. But he was in pretty good nick. He moved gracefully and was well muscled. He reminded Hathaway of one of his judo instructors. He smiled readily enough but Hathaway had always found his eyes cold and hard.

‘Have you heard from Dad?’ Hathaway said when they were sitting on the sofas in the front room. He was suddenly anxious about why Reilly was there.

‘Your mum and dad are fine. I believe they’re buying some property in Spain. As an investment and for a holiday home.’ Reilly crossed his legs. He was wearing cavalry twill trousers and polished brogues. ‘No, I’m here to find out what happened to you.’

‘Oh, just a rumble with some Teds. It was nothing.’

‘So I see,’ he said, gesturing at Hathaway’s face. He chuckled. ‘Are you telling me I should see the other fella?’

‘Not exactly, no,’ Hathaway said sheepishly. ‘We got leathered.’

‘It happens,’ Reilly said cheerfully. ‘Any other broken bones aside from that swelling that used to pass for your nose?’

Hathaway realized he had no idea what he looked like. He stood and looked at his face in the mirror over the fireplace. Jesus. Huge yellow and black bruises around his eyes, his nose a swollen mess. He gulped.

‘Ah, that’ll all be gone in a fortnight, don’t you worry,’ Reilly said. ‘Sit yourself down again.’

Hathaway sat and Reilly continued:

‘I wondered what you made of these fellas?’

‘Looking for trouble, like I told the police. Razor blades in their lapels, steel toecaps in their brothel creepers. They were ready to rumble.’

Reilly nodded.

‘Your mates OK?’

‘Charlie the drummer got a good kicking – couple of broken ribs – and Bill the rhythm guitarist has swollen goolies. Dan the singer had to have stitches in the side of his head but no concussion or anything. It’s the equipment we’re most bothered about. We had no insurance.’

Reilly nodded again.

‘You say you spoke to the police?’

‘At the hospital. We just told them what had happened.’

‘Was there anything you didn’t tell them?’