Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

There was a back entrance so his men could come and go unnoticed by the people who stored up their lives in the units at the front. The front was noisy, since everything was metal, including the corridor floors. A walk down those corridors set up a horrible, clanging reverberation.

The back, though, was all rubber. And the storage unit he was headed for had soundproofing. And an extractor fan.

Hathaway’s shoes squeaked just a little as he walked along the corridor to the pool of light spilling from unit 2020. It was empty except for Dave and two other tough-looking men leaning against the wall, looking towards a chair bolted to the floor in the centre of the room. All were armed with handguns.

Stevie Cuthbert, in an England football shirt and khaki cargo pants, was taped to the chair.

‘Stevie, my old mucker,’ Hathaway said, walking into the room. He clamped his hand around Cuthbert’s jaw, tilting his head. ‘God, that Jimmy Tingley really did a job on your nose, didn’t he? Surprised you can still breathe through it.’

Cuthbert jerked his head away.

‘He got his,’ he snarled.

Hathaway recalled the faded bruising on Tingley’s face the first time he had seen him again.

‘Hardly, Stevie.’

He looked down at the man squirming against the ropes tying him to the chair.

‘God, this scene takes me back.’ He looked over at Dave. ‘A word, Dave.’

Outside in the corridor, Hathaway put his head close to Dave and whispered.

‘You’ve got a decision to make, son. So far I’ve kept you away from the dark side, but if you stay for what’s about to happen you will definitely have crossed over. I won’t think the worse of you if you want to walk away. But I need to know now.’

Dave scanned his face. He glanced back into the room.

‘Those Serbians were tough-looking fuckers,’ he said.

‘But you delivered my message. Good lad.’

Dave looked at the floor.

‘I need an answer. And if it’s yes, there’ll be no turning back.’

Hathaway waited. Finally, Dave looked up, squared his shoulders and walked back into unit 2020.

‘You never knew what happened to your father, did you, Cuthbert?’

Hathaway was standing to Cuthbert’s right, Dave behind his left shoulder.

‘What do you mean?’ Cuthbert said, twisting his head to look at Hathaway. ‘We both know he died in a car crash.’ He frowned. ‘What are you saying, you fucking tosspot?’

Dave cuffed him across the side of his head.

‘Watch your language.’

Cuthbert looked up at him.

‘You’re fucking dead for that, dickhead.’

Dave hit him again. Blood splashed bright red on to the white football shirt. Cuthbert looked back at Hathaway.

‘Don’t you think a man taped to a chair making threats is utterly ridiculous?’ Hathaway said. ‘And pathetic?’

‘What’s this about?’

‘Well, originally, it was about you taking the piss as a loan shark and antagonizing the people we all need to be on our side. But something else has come up – to be precise, somebody has burned down my club in the marina. So, this is now about finding out what the hell is going on.’

‘How would I know?’

‘Oh, you know, compadre. You’re in this up to your bloody stupid cauliflower ears. Now the word I’m hearing is that these are Serbians and other Balkan riff-raff. I know they’re already over here doing drugs and girls in London and slave labour out in the country, but this particular lot have something else in mind. And I want to know what.’

‘How would I know?’

‘You a student of history, Cuthbert?’

‘Is that likely?’

‘Good point. OK, well most big changes happen because of local bickering when there’s a big bloody threat hanging over everyone’s heads. And some idiot, looking only at the narrow picture, invites this big bloody threat in to help him. And once they’re in, that’s the end – they take over the whole country.’

‘You’ve brought me here to give me a history lesson.’

‘No, Stevie, I’ve brought you here to whack you because you’re as thick as shit, and that’s why I think you might have been the moron who invited these Serbs in. But before I whack you, I just want to know what deal you made with them. And whether you do, in fact, get out of this room somehow by your own volition depends entirely on the quality of your answers.’

‘You’re fucking bonkers. Two things. You want to whack me, why the fuck should I tell you anything? Second, you whack me, you’ll start a war you can’t win.’

‘I’m already in a war and I want to know why.’

‘Cos you’re past it. Your day has gone. You can’t fight the future. You mention the Serbians. These guys are in another league.’

‘Are you helping them?’

Cuthbert laughed.

‘You don’t get it. These guys don’t need my help. They don’t want my help. I don’t even figure on their radar. I’m irrelevant to them. They’ll kill me, sure, but they don’t want me dead in the way they want you dead. You want to talk history? These guys are the fucking Mongol horde. Attila the Hun drank milk compared to these guys. You point a gun at them? They’ll point a fucking rocket launcher back at you.’

Hathaway grabbed at Cuthbert’s England shirt, getting flesh with it.

‘You’re wearing an England shirt and spouting this crap.’

He tore the England shirt across the front and tried to rip it from Cuthbert’s body but it got stuck in the tape. He left it in tatters, Cuthbert’s gut exposed, hanging over his belt. His chest was heavily tattooed.

‘What do they want?’

‘Payback.’

‘For that Milldean thing?’

‘Of course.’

‘Is that why they want me dead?’

‘Of course.’

‘But I had nothing to do with that.’

Cuthbert grinned.

‘They think you did.’

Hathaway moved in front of Cuthbert.

‘And why would they think that?’

Cuthbert attempted to shrug but the tape round him gave him little room for movement.

‘You?’

Cuthbert just looked at him.

‘Does it matter?’ he said. ‘Pandora’s out of the box.’

Hathaway gave him a contemptuous look.

‘Pandora was never in the box.’

Cuthbert looked puzzled.

‘Who was in the box, then?’

‘How would I know? Jack, probably.’

‘So where was Pandora?’

‘How the fuck do I know?’

‘I mean, what’s she got to do with it?’

Hathaway sighed.

‘It’s her bloody box. Now, I was saying about your father.’

Cuthbert watched him.

‘That car accident.’

‘What about it?’

‘It wasn’t an accident.’

Cuthbert narrowed his eyes.

‘But, actually, that doesn’t matter because your dad wasn’t in the car.’

Cuthbert’s face reddened.

‘His dentures were, for the purposes of identification.’

‘Who was it?’

‘What the fuck do you care who it was, you muppet?’ Dave said, hitting him across the side of the head again.

‘Because we fucking buried the pathetic remains in the family grave and now you’re telling me we’ve got some toerag in there with the rest of the Cuthberts?’

‘Believe me – whoever he is he’ll be a step up from your blood. Your dad was as much a pain in the arse as you. You’re like a family of fucking hyenas. My dad was sick of him just like I’m sick of you. I’m surprised I’ve let you live so long.’

Cuthbert stared into Hathaway’s eyes. His own were dead.

‘So, anyways, your dad was toast, obviously. It was just a matter of who else. My dad had scruples. I wanted him to do the whole bloody lot of you. Pest control. Fumigate Milldean. But you and your sister and brother were just kids. And he totally underestimated how much your mother was involved in the family business. He thought that if he got rid of your dad that would be the end of it.’