The Last King of Brighton Read Free Page A

he’d been a virgin until that Sunday. She’d been patient with him. She’d seemed sad and, when he asked to see her again, anxious. But she’d agreed. Since then she’d taught him things. The evening she’d asked if he’d like her to French him had been a revelation.
    She didn’t like to come round to the house because she didn’t want the neighbours talking, but there was a hotel she knew on the seafront down towards Hove that they’d gone to once. She paid for the room.
    He was modest enough to wonder what this glamorous older woman saw in him, but he was arrogant enough not to worry about it. He was dying to brag to his friends but she’d pleaded with him not to. She said she’d feel embarrassed.
    That was why she wouldn’t go out anywhere with him, though he wanted her to come and see the group. The only time they had gone on a date was to a late-night screening of some Hammer horror film. They’d sat in the back row and, of course, he couldn’t keep his hands off her. She’d unbuttoned his trousers and used her hand on him.
    Although he was in pain, just thinking about her now got him excited. He had trouble sleeping that night.
    On Saturday, the doorbell woke Hathaway. He tried to ignore it but it persisted. He put on his dressing gown and slippers and padded down the stairs. He hoped it might be Barbara. He picked up the newspaper lying on the doormat.
    He squinted in the glare of the sun when he opened the door.
    â€˜Good grief, Johnny. You’ve been in the wars, I see.’
    â€˜Mr Reilly.’
    â€˜Sean, please. Do you mind if I come in for a moment?’
    Sean Reilly was, as far as Hathaway could figure it, a kind of Mr Fix It for his father. Hathaway wasn’t clear exactly what his father did – he wasn’t interested actually – but whenever there was a problem he called on Reilly.
    Reilly was middle-aged, in his mid-forties judging by the way he’d mentioned seeing action with his father in World War Two. But he was in pretty good nick. He moved gracefully and was well muscled. He reminded Hathaway of one of his judo instructors. He smiled readily enough but Hathaway had always found his eyes cold and hard.
    â€˜Have you heard from Dad?’ Hathaway said when they were sitting on the sofas in the front room. He was suddenly anxious about why Reilly was there.
    â€˜Your mum and dad are fine. I believe they’re buying some property in Spain. As an investment and for a holiday home.’ Reilly crossed his legs. He was wearing cavalry twill trousers and polished brogues. ‘No, I’m here to find out what happened to you.’
    â€˜Oh, just a rumble with some Teds. It was nothing.’
    â€˜So I see,’ he said, gesturing at Hathaway’s face. He chuckled. ‘Are you telling me I should see the other fella?’
    â€˜Not exactly, no,’ Hathaway said sheepishly. ‘We got leathered.’
    â€˜It happens,’ Reilly said cheerfully. ‘Any other broken bones aside from that swelling that used to pass for your nose?’
    Hathaway realized he had no idea what he looked like. He stood and looked at his face in the mirror over the fireplace. Jesus. Huge yellow and black bruises around his eyes, his nose a swollen mess. He gulped.
    â€˜Ah, that’ll all be gone in a fortnight, don’t you worry,’ Reilly said. ‘Sit yourself down again.’
    Hathaway sat and Reilly continued:
    â€˜I wondered what you made of these fellas?’
    â€˜Looking for trouble, like I told the police. Razor blades in their lapels, steel toecaps in their brothel creepers. They were ready to rumble.’
    Reilly nodded.
    â€˜Your mates OK?’
    â€˜Charlie the drummer got a good kicking – couple of broken ribs – and Bill the rhythm guitarist has swollen goolies. Dan the singer had to have stitches in the side of his head but no concussion or anything. It’s the