The Last King of Brighton by Peter Guttridge

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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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:
    â€˜Very impressive lads, very impressive. Freddie and the Dreamers will be quaking in their boots.’
    â€˜Dad . . .’
    â€˜Just kidding. I wanted to suggest something else to you, about the group. Wondered if you could do with a roadie?’
    â€˜We can do it ourselves,’ Charlie said.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜I get paid for my van.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Alan, say hello to next year’s chart toppers.’
    He sniffed.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Charlie – you OK? You look a bit—’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Pissed in his wine – why?’
    â€˜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