Peter Guttridge: The Last King of Brighton

Hathaway frowned.

‘What kind of thing?’

Reilly shrugged.

‘You tell me. Did these thugs say anything to you?’

‘Said I needed guitar lessons.’

Reilly smiled.

‘Aside from that.’

Hathaway told him what the Teddy boy had said about the pub not being his father’s anymore. Reilly sat forward.

‘And he used exactly those words?’

‘Well, he also called me Hank Marvin but aside from that, yes.’

Reilly sat back in his seat.

‘What about the landlord – did he wade in?’

‘No, but he’s only a little bloke. He did call the ambulance.’

‘And the police?’

Hathaway thought for a moment.

‘I don’t know. The ambulance whisked us off to hospital pretty quickly – police might have come after we’d gone.’

Reilly stood.

‘All right, then.’

‘What did he mean about the pub not being Dad’s anymore, Mr Reilly?’

‘Sean,’ Reilly said. ‘I don’t rightly know. Maybe something to do with the bandits, you know?’

‘Are you going to tell my father what happened?’

‘Do you want me to? No, I think he knows you’re old enough to look out for yourself.’ He squeezed Hathaway’s arm. ‘You were unlucky this time but you’ve learned for next time.’

Hathaway touched his nose tentatively.

‘I hope there won’t be a next time.’

Reilly smiled.

‘Tell your mates not to worry about the equipment. I’m sure we can find some way of making a claim through the business.’

‘Great – thanks, er, Sean,’ Hathaway said.

Reilly glanced over at the newspaper.

‘Looks like they’re on to the gang.’

Hathaway looked at the front page. There were photographs of three men the police wanted to help with their inquiries into the Great Train Robbery. Bruce Reynolds, Charlie Wilson and Jimmy White.

‘They found their fingerprints at the farm. Seems a bit careless. As for Roger and Bill…’

‘Those men who were caught at the start of the week? Is it the same Roger Cordrey dad knows? The florist?’

‘It is. Bill Boal’s his friend. The chances of Bill being involved in a robbery are about zero. Last thing he got charged with was fiddling a gas meter back in the forties.’

Hathaway pointed at the photographs.

‘You know these men as well?’

Reilly shook his head slowly.

‘I’ve heard of them. Hard men. Rumour is they were in that airport robbery last year.’

Hathaway remembered reading about the wages robbery committed by half a dozen bowler-hatted men armed with pickaxe handles and shotguns. A man called Gordon Goody had been tried but acquitted, because when, in court, he put on the hat he was supposed to have worn at the robbery, it was two sizes too big.

‘The one Goody was acquitted for?’

Reilly laughed.

‘That was a good gag with the hat.’

‘Gag?’

‘The story goes that he bribed a policeman to switch the hats.’

‘How do you know these things?’

Reilly shrugged.

‘You’d be surprised what you pick up at the racecourse.’

Hathaway nodded, feeling out of his depth but thrilled to be having a conversation with someone clearly in the know.

‘Will they catch them?’ he said. ‘The Great Train Robbers?’

Reilly smiled.

‘Doubt it – they’ll be out of the country by now, I would think.’

He moved towards the door.

‘Better get going.’

Reilly shook Hathaway’s hand and patted him on the arm before he stepped out of the house. As Hathaway was closing the door, Reilly turned.

‘Just remember one thing, John.’ He smiled, but again the smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘There’s always a next time.’

‘Oh, John.’ Barbara’s face hovered near Hathaway as she seemed to be trying to figure out a place to kiss him that wouldn’t hurt him. She’d come straight from work but still seemed dolled up to Hathaway. She was wearing a tight skirt and an angora cardigan that clung to her breasts. Hathaway wrenched at the buttons of the cardigan.

Afterwards, as she lay on his chest, still straddling him, he said:

‘Did Reilly tell you?’

‘In passing,’ she said. ‘I had to wait an age before I was alone so I could phone you.’

‘Thanks for coming round.’

She gave a low laugh.

‘It’s absolutely my pleasure.’

‘Mine too,’ he said as she rolled off him and on to her side.

After a minute or two:

‘I’ve been wondering how Reilly heard,’ Hathaway said.

‘From the publican, I presume,’ Barbara said, sliding her hand down Hathaway’s stomach. ‘He’s an old customer of your dad’s.’

‘Not any more,’ Hathaway said, giving a little grunt.

Barbara nuzzled her face into Hathaway’s neck and murmured in his ear.

‘How much do you know about what your father does?’

‘Very little,’ he said after a moment.

‘That’s what I thought. When I first came to see you, on that Sunday, I thought you knew far more.’

‘What do you mean? Is there stuff I should know? Barbara?’

Barbara was sliding down Hathaway’s side.

‘Barbara?’

‘Darling,’ she said after a moment through the curtain of her hair. ‘Don’t you know a lady doesn’t talk with her mouth full?’

‘ Listen to this,’ Billy said, taking a single carefully out of its paper sleeve and threading it on to the long spindle of the radiogram.

‘Who is it?’ Charlie said.

‘Dusty Springfield has gone solo. It’s her first single.’

‘Dusty, my Dusty,’ Dan groaned, tilting his head back on the sofa. ‘If only you knew what a constant companion you were to me in my bed.’ He looked at the others. ‘Well, you and Christine Keeler.’

‘Hang on, Christine Keeler’s with me,’ Billy said. ‘I’m not sharing her.’

‘She’s probably already with Johnny here,’ Charlie said. ‘His mystery bird.’

The four members of the band were sprawled around Hathaway’s parent’s living room, bottles of beer on the coffee table, half-pint glasses in their hands, cheese and crackers on plates. It was Sunday afternoon, a few hours before the group’s evening gig.

Charlie was riffling through the record collection. Dan had been scanning the latest NME.

‘I only want to be with you too, Dusty,’ Dan crooned, singing along in a strangulated voice to the single on the turntable. ‘I’ve heard this on Radio Luxembourg. We could do this.’

‘I’ve heard she’s a lezzie,’ Charlie said.

‘Dusty Springfield a lezzie?’ Dan said. ‘Bugger off.’

He put on The Beatles.

Charlie said from the record stack: ‘They’ll never catch on. Hey, look at this – George Shearing, Ella Fitzgerald, Lena Horne – your dad really likes easy listening doesn’t he, John?’

‘You haven’t got to the big band stuff yet.’

‘Your dad’s got quite a good singing voice,’ Dan said. Hathaway looked at him.

‘That party I came to a couple of years ago – he did that duet with Matt Monro.’

‘Your dad knows Matt Monro?’ Charlie said. ‘Don’t tell my mum that.’

‘He came as a favour – my mum likes him too.’

‘Your dad sounds interesting,’ Charlie said. ‘I’ve heard some stories.’

Hathaway saw Billy and Dan exchange glances.

‘He’s OK,’ Hathaway said.

There was a lull, then:

‘They chucked a car off Beachy Head today,’ Billy said.

‘Who did?’ Hathaway said.

‘Brighton studios. It’s a film called Smokescreen. They set fire to it then pushed it over the edge.’

‘What were you doing out there?’