The Last King of Brighton by Peter Guttridge Page A

reared back.
    â€˜Sorry, Charlie, but you seem a bit—’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Alan is dealing drugs?’ Dan said.
    Hathaway turned back but said nothing.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Hundred watts?’ Billy said. ‘That’s bloody enormous. And a Vox? We gotta have it.’
    â€˜We’d never get it in the van,’ Hathaway said.
    Charlie cackled, jerking his body in another weird jig.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Receiving stolen goods?’ Dan said. ‘We can’t do anything illegal.’
    Charlie looked at Hathaway.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜The hard life of the working man,’ Dennis Hathaway said to his son.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜The fishmarket doesn’t do anything for me but aside from that it sounds great,’ Hathaway said. ‘We’re involved?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Porridge makers?’ Hathaway said.
    â€˜Yeah, the Quakers.’
    Hathaway laughed.
    â€˜Do they still exist?’
    â€˜You bet.’ Dennis Hathaway pointed up at the cliff. ‘And they have a burial plot up near the gasometers. The plan needs that space.’
    â€˜Then there’s the cliff itself,’ Reilly said.
    â€˜Yeah, we can’t touch that. Full of fossils, apparently. Dinosaurs and all that.’
    â€˜Really?’ Hathaway said.
    â€˜Don’t get overexcited, John. You’re such a bloody kid. They’re in the way, frankly.’
    Hathaway gestured around.
    â€˜Will this go?’
    â€˜Inevitably,’ his father said. He took Hathaway’s arm. ‘Me and your mum are off to the theatre tonight.’
    â€˜The Theatre Royal?’
    â€˜Nah, the Palace Pier. Good bit of cabaret.’ He looked over at Ruth. ‘Want to join us?’
    Hathaway shook his head.
    â€˜No, thanks, Dad.