‘ Ice hockey?’ Hathaway said. He was sitting with his father, Reilly and Charlie in deckchairs on their private end of the pier. It was a sweltering Spring day and all were wearing shorts and open-necked shirts, except for Reilly, in sports jacket and cavalry twill, still managing to stay cool as a cucumber. All but Reilly had ice cream cones.
‘These Canadian guys in the war kept going on about it so I gave it a watch,’ Reilly said. ‘Good, aggressive game. The Brighton Tigers are among the best in the country – just won the Cobley Cup against the Wembley Lions. They play at the SS Brighton.’
‘Are you a skater, then, Mr Reilly?’ Charlie said.
‘Sean. Used to be. I still do it from time to time. But SS Brighton is closing down in a few weeks – end of May.’
‘Snow melting?’ Charlie said, grinning.
Reilly gave him a look.
‘It’s being pulled down to make way for a shopping centre, and next to it Top Rank are building this concrete box. A monstrosity. A dance hall with bars, opening November. The old place is closing in October with the Tory party conference – there’s probably a joke in there somewhere but I can’t find it.’
‘If it’s a monstrosity, how did they get planning permission?’ Hathaway said. His father just looked at him.
‘It’s all progress, Sean,’ Dennis Hathaway said, grimacing as melted ice cream ran down his cone and on to his wrist. ‘There’s going to be a lot of development in Brighton over the next few years and we’re right in the middle of it.’
He waved the cone at their surroundings.
‘We’ve got to get off this pier before it rots away. Shit.’ His scoop of ice cream had toppled out of the cone on to the wooden boards. He tossed the cone over the railing into the sea and wiped his hand on his shorts.
‘We’ve got the site clearance for Churchill Square shopping centre this year. That’s going to be massive. Three years’ work before any shops open. We’re providing the labourers. And the machinery. We’re investing in Brighton’s future.’ He winked. ‘And our own.’
Billy, Dan and Tony, the group’s new rhythm guitarist, hove into view, also in shorts.
‘Rehearsal time,’ Hathaway said. Charlie groaned and Hathaway kind of knew how he felt. Hathaway was enthusiastic about his music but he was also drawn more and more to the family business. If he was honest, he enjoyed the respect – OK, fear – in people’s eyes when they found out who he was. He knew Charlie got off on bandying Dennis Hathaway’s name around.
Dan had bought a Vox Continental organ on HP, under the influence of Georgie Fame and the Dave Clark Five. He’d always played piano so had got the hang of it pretty quickly. He was singing ‘Glad All Over’, accompanying himself on the organ, when Dennis Hathaway came in and stood at the back of the store. His legs looked like tree trunks in his shorts.
When The Avalons came to the end of the song, Hathaway said:
‘Very impressive lads, very impressive. Freddie and the Dreamers will be quaking in their boots.’
‘Dad…’
‘Just kidding. I wanted to suggest something else to you, about the group. Wondered if you could do with a roadie?’
‘We can do it ourselves,’ Charlie said.
‘I know you can, but you’re musicians. You shouldn’t have to lug your stuff as well. I’ve got a reliable bloke in my office looking for a bit of extra work. A grafter. I’d be happy to lend him to you. He’s got his own van so that would free you up a bit, Charlie.’
‘I get paid for my van.’
‘But is it worth the hassle? Anyway, I’m sure we can work something out for all of you. Shall I bring him through?’
The Avalons looked at each other and nodded.
Dennis Hathaway returned a moment later with a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late teens in a white T-shirt and jeans. He had a fag in the corner of his mouth, his hands dug deep in his trouser pockets. He slouched a little, James Dean style, as he squinted through his cigarette’s smoke.
‘Alan, say hello to next year’s chart toppers.’
He sniffed.
‘All right,’ he said in a cockney accent.
The Avalons were busy three nights running that week. Alan was hard-working and efficient, though he preferred to roam the front of house during their actual sets. Hathaway would see him drifting through the audience, cigarette clamped between his teeth, having a quiet word here and there. He immediately guessed what that meant and was annoyed his father hadn’t told him.
Saturday night they were at the Hippodrome supporting The Who. Hathaway, Billy, Dan and Tony were chatting up some girls when Charlie jig-a-jigged over.
‘Charlie – you OK? You look a bit-’
‘Right as rain, Johnny, right as rain. Me and their drummer, that Keith guy – he’s mental he is – you know he’s pissed in his wine?’
‘Pissed in his wine – why?’
‘Not his own wine – the wine of that guy with the big nose. He hasn’t noticed – been swigging it back from the bottle. The others know. They’re cracking up in there.’
Hathaway reached for Charlie’s sunglasses. Charlie reared back.
‘Sorry, Charlie, but you seem a bit-’
‘Did you know our roadie is a dealer on the side?’ Charlie said. ‘Uppers, downers, blues, speed. He’s a mobile chemist that lad.’
Hathaway waved the girls away.
‘Alan is dealing drugs?’ Dan said.
Hathaway turned back but said nothing.
‘He’s a right little wheelerdealer,’ Charlie said. ‘He’s just told me their roadie is offering us a deal on a hundred-watt Vox amp.’
‘Hundred watts?’ Billy said. ‘That’s bloody enormous. And a Vox? We gotta have it.’
‘We’d never get it in the van,’ Hathaway said.
Charlie cackled, jerking his body in another weird jig.
‘They use an ice cream van. They nicked the amp from the Ready, Steady, Go studio last week. It’s got the show’s name plastered all over it.’
‘Receiving stolen goods?’ Dan said. ‘We can’t do anything illegal.’
Charlie looked at Hathaway.
‘Yeah, right.’ He cackled again. ‘That Alan. His speed is bloody… speedy. Talk about m-m-my generation.’
The others all laughed at Charlie, though Dave, Bill and Roy probably shared Hathaway’s concern that a drummer on speed wasn’t going to be exactly consistent keeping the beat.
Hathaway met a girl called Ruth that night. She was up for anything. The next day he took her to the open-air swimming pool at Black Rock. He spent time there when he could, usually chatting up girls rather than swimming. It was sheltered by the cliffs, so could be really hot in the sunshine. When he was a kid he’d often played in the rock
pools there. Now he made Ruth shudder telling her how the head of the Trunk Murder victim had been found in a rock pool back in 1934.
He was surprised to see his father and Reilly walking around, deep in conversation with another two men. All of them looked overdressed in dark suits.
His father saw him and Ruth in their deckchairs. Ruth was wearing a skimpy bikini and Hathaway saw her self-consciousness as his father stared down at her.
‘The hard life of the working man,’ Dennis Hathaway said to his son.
‘I’m working tonight,’ Hathaway said, getting out of his deckchair and tossing Ruth a towel. He nodded to Reilly. ‘What are you both doing here?’
He drew them away.
‘Considering a bit of business,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘What do you think about this whole area becoming a marina? Berths for a few thousand boats, an oceanarium, an ice rink, a sports centre, tennis courts, apartments, a hotel, pubs – the works. Even a fishmarket.’
‘The fishmarket doesn’t do anything for me but aside from that it sounds great,’ Hathaway said. ‘We’re involved?’
‘We could be. I’ve got a bit of money lying around. Couple of problems, though. Getting a road in here is tricky. And the porridge makers are being a right pain.’
‘Porridge makers?’ Hathaway said.
‘Yeah, the Quakers.’
Hathaway laughed.
‘Do they still exist?’
‘You bet.’ Dennis Hathaway pointed up at the cliff. ‘And they have a burial plot up near the gasometers. The plan needs that space.’
‘Then there’s the cliff itself,’ Reilly said.
‘Yeah, we can’t touch that. Full of fossils, apparently. Dinosaurs and all that.’
‘Really?’ Hathaway said.
‘Don’t get overexcited, John. You’re such a bloody kid. They’re in the way, frankly.’
Hathaway gestured around.
‘Will this go?’
‘Inevitably,’ his father said. He took Hathaway’s arm. ‘Me and your mum are off to the theatre tonight.’
‘The Theatre Royal?’
‘Nah, the Palace Pier. Good bit of cabaret.’ He looked over at Ruth. ‘Want to join us?’
Hathaway shook his head.
‘No, thanks, Dad. We’ve got plans.’
His father looked over at Ruth.
‘I’ll bet you have.’
‘We’re going to see The Beatles. They’re closing the Hippodrome.’
‘Don’t get me started on that. Are you supporting?’
‘Nah – they’re bringing their own support band. Some other Scousers. We’ll meet them, though.’
Hathaway’s father nodded towards Ruth and leaned in to his son.
‘That should get you whatever you want from yon lass.’
Hathaway flushed and smirked.
‘I’ve already had that.’
Dennis Hathaway was in London a lot in June for meetings. One day he came back to the West Pier with Freddie Mills, the former world champion. Mills, mashed nose and kid’s gap-toothed smile, was friendly and took Hathaway on at the shooting gallery. Hathaway won, though he thought perhaps Mills had once more let him.
On 9 July, Hathaway, sprawled on the sofa in the office after a lively night with Ruth, read in the paper that Ronnie Biggs, one of the Great Train Robbers, had been sprung from Wandsworth in an escape like something out of Danger Man.
‘He must be important,’ he said to Reilly. Charlie was tilted back in a chair, his feet up on the window sill.
Reilly shook his head.
‘He was brought in at the last moment. Small time – made his living as a painter and decorator.’
‘Why, then? Who would bother?’
‘Money,’ Charlie said. ‘He’d make it worth someone’s while. Or someone would make it worth their own while by stealing his money from him.’ He tilted the chair forward. ‘Or – he threatened to talk unless they sprang him.’
‘Who is “they”?’ Reilly said, amusement in his voice.
‘Well, I heard there were other people involved in the robbery who were never caught, never identified. Maybe he threatened to talk unless they got him out.’
‘Why didn’t “they” just pay someone to shaft him in the Scrubs?’
‘Painful,’ Hathaway said. He giggled. ‘Have you ever been shafted in the scrubs, Charlie?’
‘Piss off.’ Charlie pointed at Hathaway. ‘You thought Muffin the Mule was a sexual practice until you discovered Smirnoff.’
Even Reilly smiled at that.
‘And your dad thinks music hall died with Max Miller,’ he said. ‘Jimmy Tarbuck has a lot to answer for.’
‘As I was saying,’ Charlie said. ‘Biggs is sprung, killed and buried somewhere he’ll never be found. Mark my words. He’ll never be heard of again.’
Reilly shifted in his seat but said nothing.
Just over two weeks later, Charlie and Hathaway were sitting in deckchairs outside the office. They were arguing, first about whether Michael Caine was better in Zulu or in The Ipcress File, then about the relative merits of the Rolling Stones and The Beatles. It was a slow day.
Dennis Hathaway stomped out of the office. He went over for a low-voiced discussion with Tommy, who ran the shooting gallery, then headed over to the lads.
‘Everything all right, Dad?’
‘No, it’s bloody not. Freddie Mills is dead. Shot in the head in his car in a yard behind his club.’
Charlie and Hathaway both struggled out of their deckchairs.
‘Who did it?’ Charlie said.
‘They’re saying it’s self-inflicted. With one of my bloody rifles. I lent him it from the shooting gallery when he was last down. According to Andy, his business partner, he’d told his staff he was going off for his regular nap in his car.’
‘But our rifles are just air guns,’ Hathaway said.
His father shook his head.
‘Adapted to fire pellets but easy enough to convert back. We have half a dozen behind the counter…’
His voice tailed off.
‘Do you think he killed himself?’
His father scowled.
‘Don’t be bloody daft. A rifle in a car, a man of his bulk? If he was going to shoot himself, that’s what handguns were invented for.’
‘Who, then?’ Charlie said.
‘His chinkie was on Charing Cross Road.’ Reilly had stepped out of the office. ‘Right on the edge of Chinatown. The Tongs were shaking him down.’
Dennis Hathaway shook his head.
‘It’s the bloody twins. The chinkie went bust – probably because of the stuff going out the back door – and the twins got him to turn it into a club – The Nite Spot. They used to hang out there.’
‘So why kill him?’ Charlie said.
‘As a warning to me,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘Freddie’s been doing some negotiating on my behalf.’ He balled his fists. ‘Look, there are two main gangs in London. In the fifties it was the Cypriots and the Italians but today it’s homegrown, cockney boys. Now, what you think about them depends on where you’re sitting. Some say they keep petty crime down in the areas they control better than the rozzers can. Others say they terrorize the communities they live in – and live off.
‘Frankly, I don’t give a toss what they do as long as they stay out of my backyard. But they want to expand out of London. It’s obvious they’re looking at Brighton. They’ve been talking to those other tossers, the Boroni Brothers down here. Encouraging them to have a go at us. Divide and rule, that’s their plan. But it can’t happen. I won’t let it happen.’
‘So what do you want to do?’ Reilly said. ‘Pay them off? You know you can’t pay them off – they’d bleed you dry. Start a war?’
‘We can’t win a war.’
‘What, then?’ Hathaway said.
‘We’ll have a parlay at Freddie’s funeral. I want you boys to come up with Sean and me.’
Hathaway and Charlie exchanged glances. Stood straighter. Dennis Hathaway shook his head.
‘Freddie Mills dead. Bloody hell.’ His son thought he saw tears in his eyes. His father was both brutal and sentimental. ‘First time I saw him fight was here in Brighton. In a booth down on the beach not long before Adolf kicked off. Not what you’d call a stylist but he could hit hard – and he could take it as well as dish it out. He was a light heavyweight really but he fought heavyweight, so he had to take a lot of punches. I saw him win the world championship in 1948 – and lose it in 1950 at Earls Court. Knocked out in the tenth round. Freddie retired after that. He had headaches the rest of his life from the batterings he’d taken. But in his day he took any punch you could throw at him.’
Dennis Hathaway growled suddenly.
‘The fucking twins trying to muscle in down here. I knew that New Year when they turned up with that prick McVicar they weren’t down for the sea air. But we’ve got to keep them the fuck away – they’re fucking mental.’
‘Sean told me it was only one of them,’ Hathaway said. ‘That the other is OK.’
‘Fucking bum-bandit boxer,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘Not enough he wants to fuck you up the arse, he wants to punch you in the face whilst he’s doing it. Freddie was the same.’
Hathaway looked askance.
‘Freddie Mills was queer?’
‘Freddie wouldn’t be the first queer scrapper, Johnny boy. You never seen those wrestlers your mother likes watching, tent poles sticking out of their trunks when they get into a grapple?’
Hathaway flushed.
‘So could his death have been a queer thing?’ Charlie said.
‘Well, there’s a story that he’d been arrested in a public toilet and charged with homosexual indecency,’ Reilly said. ‘Plus his singer lover-boy, Michael Holliday, killed himself.’
Hathaway was a step or two behind.
‘But he’s married, isn’t he?’
‘He married his manager’s daughter and they had two kiddies – girls, I think. But he was queer.’ Dennis Hathaway chuckled. ‘Welcome to the confusions of the adult world, son,’
‘I thought Holliday belonged to the poof twin,’ Reilly said.
‘They were close,’ Dennis said. ‘But then I thought he was doing Freddie as well. Anyway, his brother insists he’s a real man’s man and not that way inclined.’
‘Aren’t all queers men’s men?’ Hathaway said. ‘Isn’t that the point?’
Charlie sniggered.
‘I saw him introducing Six-Five Special,’ he said. ‘Stuck out a bit. And in the Carry On films.’
Dennis Hathaway cracked his knuckles.
‘You’re going to hear all kinds of wild stories going round. One is that he’s about to be exposed as Jack the Stripper.’
Hathaway’s eyes swivelled from his father to Reilly and back.
‘Really?’
Charlie didn’t read the papers much.
‘Who’s he?’
‘Since about 1959 through to now,’ Reilly said, ‘some guy has been choking or strangling young women – eight to date – as he’s raping them. He dumps the bodies in or near the Thames. So far he’s not been identified.’
‘But why would they think that was Freddie Mills?’ Hathaway said. ‘Especially if he’s queer.’
His father clapped his hand on Hathaway’s back.
‘More confusion. Your mum won’t feel like going to Freddie’s funeral. She’s never got on with queers. But you and Charlie are set? It’ll give you a chance to see how the other half live.’
‘The queers?’ Charlie said.
‘No, you daft sod, East End gangsters and East End showbiz types. You know Freddy made a few films. It’ll be a big turnout.’
Hathaway and Charlie looked at each other. Nodded.
‘Good. I want to introduce you to a couple of people. Then we’ll do our bit of business with the twins. Sean, we won’t go mob-handed. We’ll show them what class is.’
‘Will McVicar be there?’ Hathaway said. Charlie gave him a puzzled look. Dennis Hathaway looked down at his hands.
‘Don’t see him around any more. They say he’s in the foundations of the Westway. Doing something useful for the first time in his life.’
Freddie Mills was buried at New Camberwell Cemetery. Hundreds of people turned out. Hathaway and Charlie filed past the grave behind Dennis Hathaway and Reilly. There were boxing gloves on the headstone and an urn in front of it.
‘See that urn?’ His father nudged Hathaway. ‘It’s got one of Freddy’s boxing gloves in it.’
‘Won’t someone nick it?’
Dennis Hathaway looked around.
‘Not with these villains around.’
‘Honour among thieves?’
‘Fear.’
A big man with a flat nose tapped Dennis Hathaway on the shoulder. Dennis looked up at him.
‘The brothers want a word.’
Hathaway and Charlie didn’t know what that word was. Hathaway’s father and Reilly stayed up in London and sent the lads back to Brighton. Hathaway was reluctant to go but his father insisted.
‘Nothing is going to kick off, Johnny. It’s a mi casa, su casa thing.’
‘What do you mean?’ Hathaway said.
‘I mean go home. Shag the arse off Ruth.’
‘I’m not seeing her anymore.’
Dennis Hathaway laughed.
‘OK, go and shag the arse off Charlie – in memory of Freddie.’
‘He should be so lucky,’ Charlie said.
‘Go on. Piss off, the pair of you. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.’
Hathaway was out the next day until mid-afternoon. He came home to the sound of his father raging and a woman crying. He hurried into the front room. His older sister, Dawn, was sprawled on the sofa, her hand to a bright red cheek. Her father was standing over her.
‘Dad?’
‘You keep out of this, John.’
‘But, Dad-’
His father turned on him, his big fists clenched. His feet were planted a yard apart. His tree trunk legs made him look immovable.
‘Do you want some too?’
‘Dad, she’s a girl. She’s Dawn.’
‘She’s a tart, is what she is.’ Dennis Hathaway looked more intently at his son. ‘Do you know about this?’
‘About what?’
‘Your sister’s got a bun in the bloody oven, that’s what.’
Hathaway looked at his sister, her hands now over her face. She was sobbing.
‘So?’ he said.
His father took a step closer, his face reddening.
‘So? That my daughter has been sleeping around is bad enough, but that they haven’t been using johnnies is bloody diabolical.’
‘I haven’t been sleeping around,’ she stumbled out between sobs.
‘Haven’t you? Is this the miraculous conception, then?’
‘I’ve only slept with one person. I love him.’
‘You’re a kid for fuck’s sake. What do you know about love?’
Dawn sat up on the sofa.
‘A lot more than you – the way you treat Mum.’
Dennis Hathaway loomed over her again. She shrank into the cushions.
‘I’ve never laid a hand on your mother. Never. Even though she’d try the patience of a saint.’
Dawn kept her eyes down.
‘There’s more to love than that,’ she said sullenly.
Hathaway slid on to the sofa beside her and put his arm round her. Their father looked down at the both of them.
‘If you love him you must be proud of him, and if you’re proud why won’t you tell me who he is?’
‘I’m not telling you who he is because you’ll do something to him.’
‘I’ll do something to him if you don’t tell me who he is.’
‘Where’s Mum?’ Hathaway said.
‘Bingo,’ his father said. ‘She’s got this to look forward to.’
The telephone rang. Dennis Hathaway looked from one to the other of them, his fists still clenched.
‘Of all the bloody days to hear this,’ he said, walking over to the phone and snatching it up. ‘What?’
He listened for a minute then put the phone down. He hurried over to the front door.
‘I’ll be back,’ he called over his shoulder.
In the silence following the slamming of the door, Hathaway said:
‘Why didn’t you tell Mum first so she could prepare the ground?’
‘Have you seen her lately?’ Dawn said. ‘She’s having one of her times. She’s in la-la land.’
‘When’s it due?’
‘Not for ages – I’m only about six weeks.’
Hathaway looked at his sister.
‘Are you pleased?’
She smiled. ‘Well, you know.’
‘What about this bloke, whoever he is?’
‘What about him?’
‘Does he know?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he pleased?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Is he going to stand by you?’
She laughed.
‘Stand by me? You sound like a Victorian parent.’
‘Is he?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re going to have it, then?’
‘Dad wants me to have an abortion. Knows this doctor in Hove. Abortionist to high society, he says, as if that matters.’
‘Who is the father?’
‘Will you tell Dad?’
‘He’ll have to find out sooner or later.’
Dawn leaned into Hathaway.
‘Will you tell him?’
‘No.’
She kissed his cheek. ‘Thanks.’
‘But you’ll have to tell him.’
She stood up and looked down on Hathaway, a coy look on her blotched face. It was a disconcerting combination.
‘You know him, actually.’
Hathaway raised an eyebrow.
‘That’s my Saint look. I’ve been practising.’
‘You’re a good-looking boy but Roger Moore you’re not.’
Hathaway shrugged.
‘So who is it?’
Dawn walked over to the French windows and looked out into the garden. Without turning round she said:
‘It’s Charlie.’
Hathaway was half-watching The Avengers when his father came back in. He’d been thinking about Charlie and Dawn together. Getting angry.
‘Where’s your sister?’
Hathaway kept his eyes on the screen.
‘Gone to bed in her old bedroom.’
‘Did she tell your mum?’
‘She’s already knitting socks.’
Dennis Hathaway smiled grudgingly.
‘I suppose if they get married straightaway it can be a honeymoon conception. She said she wasn’t far along.’
‘Six weeks. But, Dad, I have to ask – given our line of business, why do you care so much about the proprieties?’
The smile went.
‘You want to be uncle to a bastard?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘I’m hoping she won’t have it. I’ve suggested a doctor I know in Hove.’
‘Dawn said.’
‘Has she told you whose it is?’
Hathaway nodded.
‘And?’
‘It’s for Dawn to tell you.’
His father looked at him for a long moment but not with hostility.
‘OK. This has come at a bad time. There’s a lot going on. You know that.’
‘What happened with the twins?’
Hathaway pinched the end of his nose and sucked in air. He sighed.
‘Johnny boy, it’s war.’