The Last King of Brighton Read Free

out from behind his kit and jumping off the shallow stage before any of the Teds had got to their feet.
    As Charlie ploughed into them, Hathaway looked at Dan and Bill and pulled his Fender Stratocaster over his head.
    â€˜Bugger,’ he said, laying the guitar carefully down.
    Hathaway had been in his share of scraps. His father had taught him the rudiments of boxing but he’d taken up judo when he was fourteen and moved up the grades pretty quickly.
    The Ted who’d thrown the coins was out of his seat and heading straight for Hathaway. Hathaway knew exactly what to do. He was going to grab the man by his velvet lapels, nut him, then do a backward roll, plant his feet in his stomach and use his opponent’s weight to send him over his shoulders on to the floor behind him.
    That was the theory. But when he grabbed the Ted’s lapels he felt something slice into his fingers. He let go and saw the blood a moment before the Ted nutted him. He managed to turn his head to avoid getting a broken nose but the man’s hard forehead hit him with a loud crack against his cheekbone and eye socket.
    Dazed, Hathaway could do nothing as the man followed it up with a kick to the shin that indicated there was some kind of steel toecap inside his suede brothel creepers. The man grabbed Hathaway’s own lapels, pulled him towards him and nutted him again. This time the nose went. Hathaway keeled over.
    Charlie had gone under in a welter of flailing fists and feet. Dan and Bill, neither of them scrappers, hadn’t even really got started. The smallest of the Teds had hit Dan on the side of the head with a bottle that, thankfully, didn’t smash. Bill had slumped to the floor after a kick between the legs.
    They could do nothing as five of the Teddy boys wrecked their gear. The sixth, the smallest, stood over Hathaway. He was unbuttoning his fly when the big one pulled him away. He leaned over Hathaway, who was trying to breath through his mouth as blood poured down his throat.
    â€˜Listen, Hank Marvin,’ he said. ‘If your dad ever comes home again, tell him this pub ain’t his anymore.’
    Then the six teddy boys sauntered out of the room.
    â€˜What did he mean about the pub not being your dad’s any more?’ Bill said, as the four of them sat in the emergency room of the hospital.
    Hathaway shrugged, holding a wadded cloth to his nose. His fingers stung. In his eagerness to use his judo move he’d forgotten that Teddy boys habitually sewed razor blades behind their jacket lapels so that nobody could grab them to nut them.
    â€˜Something to do with the one-armed bandits?’ he said, his voice thick.
    One of his dad’s various businesses was leasing one-armed bandits to pubs and clubs along the south coast. He had his own machines in his amusement arcade on the end of the West Pier.
    â€˜I borrowed the money off my dad for that drum kit,’ Charlie said. ‘He’ll go mental.’
    â€˜I don’t even want to think what the Strat cost my dad,’ Hathaway said.
    Two nurses came over. They looked disapproving.
    â€˜We’ll see you all together,’ one of them said. ‘And afterwards a policeman will want a word.’
    Two hours later, Hathaway was home. His hands were bandaged and his nose had been reset. He had a lump like a goose egg on his shin and he felt about a hundred. He wanted to telephone Barbara but he didn’t know her number. He didn’t really know her home circumstances. He thought she might be married but he hadn’t liked to ask – he didn’t want to spoil what was going on. He’d noticed a faint white mark on her ring finger, as if she took off her wedding ring before she met him. And although she sometimes met him late in the evening, she never stayed the night.
    He sat on the sofa listening to Please Please Me on his parent’s radiogram, thinking about Barbara. He’d had girlfriends before but