Free The Last King of Brighton by Peter Guttridge Page A

police turned a blind eye unless you were really taking the Michael.’
    â€˜And now?’
    â€˜Well, thanks to Ridge they’ve got rid of Brighton police as an independent entity and are setting up Southern Police with its new chief constable, Philip Simpson.’
    â€˜The man I met at New Year with Victor Tempest?’
    â€˜The very man. And it’s business as usual. Now we’re paying him off. No coincidence that Simpson and Ridge both worked their way through the ranks in Brighton from the thirties onward.’
    â€˜So the head of the police is also the king of crime in Brighton. What does that make you, Dad?’
    â€˜I’m a prince of the city, son, just a prince of the city. And happy to be so. Kings have a bad habit of getting their heads lopped off.’
    Hathaway’s mind was racing. Personally, he was thinking, I would want to be king.
    The Saint was on the television but Hathaway wasn’t really watching. He had a glass of beer in front of him but he wasn’t really drinking. His mother had gone to bingo and his father was down on the West Pier. His mum had left one of her Jean Plaidys on the coffee table and he was idly flicking through it, thinking hard about his father and his father’s businesses. How criminal were they?
    He’d asked his dad if he could find work for Charlie Laker. Charlie was with his father and Reilly now, discussing it.
    He was also thinking about Barbara. He missed her but mostly he was thinking that she came to him unwillingly. Every time they’d had sex, she’d been doing it under duress. It was messing him up.
    He’d liked to watch her dress, though he had to do it covertly as he made her self-conscious. When she pulled on her stockings and clipped them to her garter belt he usually wanted her again, despite her protests.
    Now he thought how terrible it was that she did it out of fear. That those protests were probably genuine.
    â€˜Johnny, I hope you’re not up to no good.’
    Hathaway glanced at Charlie and Bill who looked at the ground.
    â€˜Mum.’
    â€˜Your dad tells me you’re doing a bit of work for him.’
    Hathaway loved his mother but she was away with the fairies.
    â€˜Just bits and pieces,’ he said.
    â€˜How was your holiday, Mrs H?’ Bill asked.
    â€˜Lovely, Bill, thank you. I do like the South of France.’
    â€˜Weren’t you in Spain?’
    â€˜There too.’
    â€˜You’ve caught a nice tan.’
    Mrs Hathaway stuck her thin arms out and looked down at them.
    â€˜I’m peeling. For the second time.’
    â€˜Mum, I’m going out now.’
    â€˜All right, Johnny. Do you want the whisk?’
    His mother was baking a cake. Nobody would be around to eat it and it would sit in the cake tin until it started going mouldy and she would throw it away. She held out the whisk, coated with cake mix. Hathaway ducked his head and took the whisk, running his finger along it and putting the mix in his mouth.
    â€˜Thanks, Mum,’ he said through a full mouth, his face burning.
    His mother turned to his friends.
    â€˜He’s always liked the cake mix from when he used to help me bake cakes. Would you like some?’
    â€˜No thanks, Mrs Hathaway,’ Charlie mumbled. Bill merely shook his head.
    Outside Hathaway stopped them in the drive.
    â€˜Don’t either of your say a bloody thing, alright?’
    Bill squeezed his arm.
    â€˜Don’t worry, Johnny. Mums are like that. Mine’s the same.’
    â€˜Mine too,’ said Charlie. Then, after a pause:
    â€˜How do your angel cakes normally turn out?’

FIVE
    Get Off of My cloud
    1964
    H athaway found his father in The Bath Arms with Sean Reilly. ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ was playing on the jukebox and Dennis Hathaway was quietly singing along. He broke off when he saw his son.
    â€˜Johnny boy, come and wet your whistle. You’re looking very smart –