H athaway tracked down his father in the Hippodrome.
‘We got bingo in half an hour,’ his father said. ‘I expect your mother will be down.’
He looked around.
‘Look at this place – beautiful. Started as a circus, you know. Built by Frank Matcham. I’ve seen so many great shows over the years. And now it’s a bloody bingo hall.’ He shook his head. ‘Progress.’
‘Dad, I need to talk to you.’
‘What’s that?’ Dennis Hathaway grabbed for the red plastic-covered book Hathaway had put on the table.
‘The thoughts of Mousie Tung,’ Hathaway’s father said, chucking the book on his desk. ‘Jesus Christ – you’re gonna start giving all your money away to the poor?’
Hathaway pursed his lips.
‘I think that was Jesus, Dad.’
Dennis Hathaway stood, shoulders forward, the small book swallowed in his big hands.
‘I suppose this is more of that stupid nonsense from your privileged student mates, is it?’
‘Elaine gave it to me, yes.’
Dennis Hathaway snorted.
‘I like Elaine, don’t get me wrong. She’s a beautiful gal and I like her spirit, but Jesus, she has some barmy ideas.’
Hathaway fidgeted. Elaine wasn’t why he was here, but still he said:
‘She wants us to go travelling in India, visit some ashrams.’
‘Are they Commies and all, these ashrams?’
Hathaway smiled and was relieved to see his father did too.
‘They’re places, Dad, not people. Places of spiritual retreat. The Beatles went there and Twiggy.’
‘Oh well, very deep and meaningless, then, clearly.’
‘Meaningful,’ Hathaway murmured.
His father’s smile went.
‘I mean exactly what I say: meaningless. We’re put on this planet to look out for ourselves and our families. Everyone else can watch out for themselves. Do you think Mousie is watching out for others? He’s top of the tree, mate, and he wants to stay there. Funny how all these communist countries, where everyone is equal, all have a dictator at the top of them. Kruschev, Castrato, Mousie…’
Hathaway recalled a phrase Elaine had used:
‘It’s called the dictatorship of the proletariat, Dad.’
His father took his time.
‘Is it?’
Hathaway struggled for Elaine’s words.
‘It’s a phase any communist society must go through-’
His father snorted again.
‘The proles have never dictated anything to anybody. That’s why they’re proles. You weren’t raised to be a prole; you were raised to be a governor.’
‘But governor of what? Dad, there’s something I need to talk to you about.’
‘What – has your girl got a bun in the oven?’
‘About the family business.’
‘What about it?’
‘I’ve just seen Barbara.’
His father sat back. Looked over to the man behind the bar.
‘Find us a bottle of whisky and a couple of glasses will you, Des?’
Des nodded.
‘Not for me,’ Hathaway said.
‘Yes, for you. This is a club – well, used to be. In a club you have a proper drink.’
Hathaway shrugged then leaned forward.
‘Dad, it’s about-’
Hathaway’s father put up his hand.
‘Not before the drinks, son. Protocol, you know.’
They waited until Des had brought over the whisky and two glasses full of ice. Dennis slouched low in his chair, looking round the room.
‘Canadian Club – very nice. Thanks, Des.’
‘No problem, Mr H.’
Hathaway watched Des amble back over to the bar area. He looked back at his father who was pouring two stiff measures.
‘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?’
‘This is the fashion, Dad,’ Hathaway said.
‘Yeah, I know that. I saw the film. That’s why all the gels are in berets and midi-skirts. I saw that Warren Beatty when he was over in London a little while ago. Shags anything that moves, apparently. He was with that Hove girl, Julie Christie. I was in the World’s End pub down the end of the King’s Road with Bindon, when Bindon did his helicopter thing, and Beatty almost choked on his orange juice.’
‘Bindon?’ Hathaway said.
‘John Bindon. Small-time villain with a huge dick. He’s an extra in a lot of films. Plays thugs, usually. Typecasting. Twirls it round like a helicopter blade. Bindon shags all the film stars. Might only be an extra but he’s got a lot of extra, if you know what I mean.’
‘And Julie Christie is from Hove?’
‘Missed your chance there, John. She used to work in rep at the Palace Pier theatre after she got expelled from St Leonards.’
‘When?’
‘Back in the late fifties.’
‘Dad, I was about thirteen.’
His father raised an eyebrow.
‘So? When I was thirteen-’
‘Dennis,’ Reilly said quietly.
‘Yeah, well. Another time.’ Dennis Hathaway waved at Charlie and Hathaway.
‘Sit down. I got some news. Hot off the presses. Philip Simpson is resigning next year. Scotland Yard hot on his tail.’
Hathaway nodded.
‘Is that it?’ his father said, sitting back in his chair. ‘Is that all the excitement you can muster?’
‘He’s still upset about Julie Christie,’ Charlie said. ‘How will that affect us?’
Dennis Hathaway’s smile back at Charlie was conspiratorial and Hathaway felt a twinge of jealousy.
‘What do you think, Charlie?’
‘Nature abhors a vacuum,’ Hathaway blurted before Charlie could say anything. His father looked at him and laughed. ‘I always said you read too many books. But you’re right, you’re right. Now, look, if you’re serious about this, we need to do it together.’ He pointed at Hathaway. ‘And if we’re doing it together, you’ve got to give up these ideas of travelling in India barefoot and giving all your wealth away.’
Charlie chuckled. Dennis Hathaway turned to him. ‘Plus, there are other people going to have the same idea. We need to keep hold of what we’ve already got and move quickly for the rest.’
‘We go after Gerald Cuthbert?’ Charlie said.
Dennis Hathaway shook his head.
‘Not overtly. He’s too close to the twins. But Simpson seems to think they are on their way down. For now we outmanoeuvre Cuthbert but we don’t go for him head-on.’
Charlie and Hathaway both nodded.
‘Am I clear?’ Dennis Hathaway said.
‘Sure, Dad.’
‘Charlie?’
‘Whatever you say, sir.’
Dennis Hathaway gave him an intense look.
‘I don’t want to hear about any clowns running amok in Milldean.’
Hathaway and Charlie went to the folk club towards the end of the evening for after-hours drinks. They were overdressed so left their jackets in Hathaway’s car and went in wearing waistcoats over rolled-up shirt-sleeves and gangster trousers. There were still thirty-odd people sitting around drinking and listening to Bob Dylan on the jukebox. A lot of straggly hair and beards. Women with long plaited hair and dirndle skirts.
Bill and Dan were both in granddad T-shirts and second-hand waistcoats these days. They both had walrus moustaches. Bill had turned vegetarian and was living in Lewes. As Hathaway and Charlie walked across to them, they saw a swelling around Dan’s eye, the beginnings of a shiner.
‘What happened?’ Hathaway said.
‘Bit of a barney,’ Billy said, tugging at his moustache. ‘Dan got in the way.’
‘Folkies fighting?’ Charlie snorted. ‘I thought they were all peaceniks. Little boxes, little boxes, all that frigging Pete Seeger stuff.’
Hathaway grinned whilst he tilted Dan’s head to look at his eye.
‘Charlie is off again. You know it’s changed, mister.’
Charlie ignored him.
‘What did they do? Hit you with their lutes? Or their sandals?’
‘It was this one big bugger,’ Dan said. ‘He’s on stage and his manager tries to leave without paying him. He’s sees his manager legging it, stops singing, shouts “Oy, he’s got my fucking money”, drops his guitar and chases after him down the centre aisle.
‘He catches him, virtually turns him upside down to get the money out of his pockets, gives him a couple of slaps for trying it on, then turns back to the stage. I’ve come down to stop the fight and he whacks me in passing, goes back up and finishes singing “Spencer the Rover”.’
Charlie laughed.
‘What’s the world coming to when even a fucking folkie can best you, Danny?’
‘Fighting’s not my area of expertise.’
‘Well finking and fucking aren’t either, so where’s that leave you?’
‘Easy, Charlie,’ Hathaway said. ‘That eye must hurt like hell.’
Charlie clamped his arm round Dan’s shoulder, despite Dan trying to shrug him off.
‘Sorry, mate. Only kidding you.’
Hathaway glanced over as the door opened and was surprised to see Sean Reilly walk in. He was even more surprised to see him in jeans and an open-necked shirt. Reilly gave him a little nod and walked to the far end of the bar.
‘Scuse me a sec,’ Hathaway said. He walked over.
‘Sean?’ he said.
‘John. Wondered if I could have a quiet word?’
‘Is Dad OK?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘Has he got something for me?’
Reilly shook his head.
‘No. This is just me. Wondered if I could pop round your place?’
‘Tonight?’
Reilly shrugged.
‘If it’s not too late – you’re a late-night person, I think. Tomorrow if not.’
Hathaway didn’t show his puzzlement. Or, indeed, his suspicion.
‘Sure,’ he said. He looked at his watch. ‘About one?’
Reilly nodded.
‘Thanks, John.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re a fucking folkie too, Mr Reilly.’
Charlie had wandered over and now slapped Reilly on the back.
‘Sean. More of a blues man, I suppose. Son House, Blind Mamie Forehand, Big Mama Thornton – that kind of stuff.’
‘You might as well be talking a foreign language,’ Charlie said, leaning close.
Reilly smiled and raised his glass.
‘Here’s to music in all its forms.’
At one in the morning, Hathaway led Reilly on to his balcony. The lights had gone off on the piers and along the seafront, but the moon was full, casting its cold brilliance over the deserted scene.
‘You’ve made me very curious, Sean,’ Hathaway said. He indicated the briefcase Reilly had brought with him. ‘Especially with that.’
Reilly looked down.
‘Oh that.’ He reached in and withdrew a pile of thin books. ‘I’ve seen you’re a bit of a reader, John,’ he said.
‘It’s Elaine. She’s studying American literature. But you wanted to see me in the middle of the night to lend me books?’
Reilly smiled.
‘I’ve been carrying them round for days. Just thought I’d take this opportunity. American literature, eh? Not enough good books at home for her? Well, the Yanks have always been good at finishing what somebody else has started.’
‘She says they’ve colonized our imaginations.’
‘Does she now? That’s a nice bit of phrase-making.’
Reilly passed the books across to Hathaway.
‘I don’t think she invented it. It would be from one of her lectures.’
He looked at the cover of the top book on the pile.
‘ The Great Gatsby.’
‘That is one up to the Americans, that book there. A perfect little thing. If she’s studying American literature, you’ll impress her casually flaunting that around the place.’
Hathaway frowned.
‘I don’t need to impress her, Sean.’
‘I’m sure you don’t, but nevertheless a bit of impressing never goes amiss. Stores up points for the future, when your stock may have dipped. And I’m sure some of her literary friends will be stuffed full of opinion.’
Hathaway smiled and shuffled through the other books.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of proposing that the best of English literature is actually Irish, which I know is an Irish kind of thing to say. Ulysses is a mountain you need to come up on slow, when you’ve trained a bit, so to say. So here’s by way of a foothill.’
‘ Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man by James Joyce. You know he was a bicycle-seat sniffer?’
Reilly gave him a look.
‘Apparently.’ Hathaway said.
‘You’ll see I’ve chosen them all for their brevity, attention spans being what they are among young people today.’
‘Flann O’Brien?’ Hathaway said, holding up the next.
‘Sheer comic genius but he also understands the world better than any politician or priest.’
‘ At Swim Two Birds – strange title.’
‘Strange book. And your last one is a gift from God. W.B. Yeats. Read his “Aedh wishes for the cloths of heaven” and she’ll be putty in your hands – though I’m sure she already is.’
Hathaway grinned and nodded.
‘Thanks, Sean. But I don’t quite understand…’
Sean took a drink and looked up at the moon.
‘I’m not sure I do. I just… your father isn’t a sensitive man.’
‘Agreed.’
‘You’re how old now?’
‘Twenty-two.’
‘Well, you can understand it. At your age most men of your dad’s generation were killing each other. But, still, the family business…’
‘What about it?’
Reilly’s eyes glittered.
‘It kills the soul,’ he said softly. ‘Before I took up soldiering I was all kinds of things. Maybe I’ll get back to some of them one day.’ He pushed out his lower lip. ‘But probably it’s too late.’
Hathaway put the books down on the floor beside him.
‘I’ll take a look at them, I promise.’ He gave a false smile. ‘If only to impress Elaine’s poncy friends.’
‘What I’m trying to say, John, is that I wasn’t really joking about the Mephistophelean pact. Once you fully commit to the family business, there’s no way back.’ He looked at Hathaway sharply. ‘But maybe it’s too late already.’
Hathaway watched him over the rim of his glass.
‘I don’t hear you talk about your sister much.’
‘Dawn? Dawn goes her own way, as always.’
‘From what I hear, she could do with some brotherly support.’
‘It was only an abortion, for God’s sake,’ Hathaway said. ‘Women have them every day.’
Reilly looked at him for a long moment, then dropped his eyes.
‘And Barbara? Do women get cancer every day?’
‘Probably. Is she why you’re really here? Did she send you?’
Reilly shook his head.
‘She has more class than that.’
‘Class? Running seedy Dutch brothels?’
‘They’re quite classy too, actually. The clientele are usually judges and senior politicians.’
Reilly leaned over and put his hand on Hathaway’s arm.
‘Don’t you owe her anything?’
‘The price of a few fucks?’ Hathaway said.
Reilly removed his arm and sat back. He looked into the sky again. A seagull swooped silently by, ghostly in the moonlight.
‘Maybe it’s too late for you already. Did you or Charlie shoot the Boroni brothers?’
Hathaway refilled their glasses.
‘Slainte,’ Reilly said, chinking his glass against Hathaway’s and keeping his eyes on him.
‘Charlie,’ Hathaway said.
Reilly gave a small nod.
‘But you both had guns?’
Hathaway’s turn to nod.
‘Did you get rid of them?’
‘Charlie did. Mine hadn’t been fired.’
‘Get rid of it. Some people say a gun is just a tool. And, of course, it is. But a gun is also a seducer. A gun wants to be fired. And, sooner or later, whoever has one will fire it.’
‘So what should I do if I don’t go into the family business?’
‘You’ve met this bright young girl, Elaine. Think about a future with her.’
‘In an ashram in India? Will that save my soul?’
Reilly gave a low laugh.
‘Your dad isn’t really Mephistopheles. Your soul is still safe.’
‘Is yours, Sean?’
Reilly looked into his glass.
‘No, there’s no hope for me. I’m for the fiery pit all right.’ He pointed at the books. ‘Books feed my spirit. Music too. But nothing can save my long-lost, long-damned soul.’ He started to rise. ‘But you give those books a try some time. If only to wean yourself off those penny dreadfuls you and your father favour.’
Hathaway nodded absently, still seated. Knowing what neither Sean nor any living being knew: that his soul had been lost years before and there was nothing he could ever do to save it.