‘No, it’s bloody not. Freddie Mills is dead. Shot in the head in his car in a yard behind his club.’
Charlie and Hathaway both struggled out of their deckchairs.
‘Who did it?’ Charlie said.
‘They’re saying it’s self-inflicted. With one of my bloody rifles. I lent him it from the shooting gallery when he was last down. According to Andy, his business partner, he’d told his staff he was going off for his regular nap in his car.’
‘But our rifles are just air guns,’ Hathaway said.
His father shook his head.
‘Adapted to fire pellets but easy enough to convert back. We have half a dozen behind the counter . . .’
His voice tailed off.
‘Do you think he killed himself?’
His father scowled.
‘Don’t be bloody daft. A rifle in a car, a man of his bulk? If he was going to shoot himself, that’s what handguns were invented for.’
‘Who, then?’ Charlie said.
‘His chinkie was on Charing Cross Road.’ Reilly had stepped out of the office. ‘Right on the edge of Chinatown. The Tongs were shaking him down.’
Dennis Hathaway shook his head.
‘It’s the bloody twins. The chinkie went bust – probably because of the stuff going out the back door – and the twins got him to turn it into a club – The Nite Spot. They used to hang out there.’
‘So why kill him?’ Charlie said.
‘As a warning to me,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘Freddie’s been doing some negotiating on my behalf.’ He balled his fists. ‘Look, there are two main gangs in London. In the fifties it was the Cypriots and the Italians but today it’s homegrown, cockney boys. Now, what you think about them depends on where you’re sitting. Some say they keep petty crime down in the areas they control better than the rozzers can. Others say they terrorize the communities they live in – and live off.
‘Frankly, I don’t give a toss what they do as long as they stay out of my backyard. But they want to expand out of London. It’s obvious they’re looking at Brighton. They’ve been talking to those other tossers, the Boroni Brothers down here. Encouraging them to have a go at us. Divide and rule, that’s their plan. But it can’t happen. I won’t let it happen.’
‘So what do you want to do?’ Reilly said. ‘Pay them off? You know you can’t pay them off – they’d bleed you dry. Start a war?’
‘We can’t win a war.’
‘What, then?’ Hathaway said.
‘We’ll have a parlay at Freddie’s funeral. I want you boys to come up with Sean and me.’
Hathaway and Charlie exchanged glances. Stood straighter. Dennis Hathaway shook his head.
‘Freddie Mills dead. Bloody hell.’ His son thought he saw tears in his eyes. His father was both brutal and sentimental. ‘First time I saw him fight was here in Brighton. In a booth down on the beach not long before Adolf kicked off. Not what you’d call a stylist but he could hit hard – and he could take it as well as dish it out. He was a light heavyweight really but he fought heavyweight, so he had to take a lot of punches. I saw him win the world championship in 1948 – and lose it in 1950 at Earls Court. Knocked out in the tenth round. Freddie retired after that. He had headaches the rest of his life from the batterings he’d taken. But in his day he took any punch you could throw at him.’
Dennis Hathaway growled suddenly.
‘The fucking twins trying to muscle in down here. I knew that New Year when they turned up with that prick McVicar they weren’t down for the sea air. But we’ve got to keep them the fuck away – they’re fucking mental.’
‘Sean told me it was only one of them,’ Hathaway said. ‘That the other is OK.’
‘Fucking bum-bandit boxer,’ Dennis Hathaway said. ‘Not enough he wants to fuck you up the arse, he wants to punch you in the face whilst he’s doing it. Freddie was the same.’
Hathaway looked askance.
‘Freddie Mills was queer?’
‘Freddie wouldn’t be the first queer scrapper, Johnny boy. You never seen those wrestlers your mother likes watching, tent poles sticking out of their trunks when they get into a grapple?’
Hathaway flushed.
‘So could his death have been a queer thing?’ Charlie said.
‘Well, there’s a story that he’d been arrested in a public toilet and charged with homosexual indecency,’ Reilly said. ‘Plus his singer lover-boy, Michael Holliday, killed himself.’
Hathaway was a step or two behind.
‘But he’s married, isn’t he?’
‘He married his manager’s daughter and they had two kiddies – girls, I think. But he was queer.’ Dennis Hathaway chuckled. ‘Welcome to the confusions of the adult world, son,’
‘I thought Holliday belonged to the poof twin,’ Reilly said.
‘They were close,’ Dennis said. ‘But then I thought he was doing Freddie as well. Anyway, his brother insists he’s a real man’s man and not that way inclined.’
‘Aren’t all queers men’s men?’ Hathaway said. ‘Isn’t that the point?’
Charlie sniggered.
‘I saw him introducing Six-Five Special,’ he said. ‘Stuck out a bit. And in the Carry On films.’
Dennis Hathaway cracked his knuckles.
‘You’re going to hear all kinds of wild stories going round. One is that he’s about to be exposed as Jack the Stripper.’
Hathaway’s eyes swivelled from his father to Reilly and back.
‘Really?’
Charlie didn’t read the papers much.
‘Who’s he?’
‘Since about 1959 through to now,’ Reilly said, ‘some guy has been choking or strangling young women – eight to date – as he’s raping them. He dumps the bodies in or near the Thames. So far he’s not been identified.’
‘But why would they think that was Freddie Mills?’ Hathaway said. ‘Especially if he’s queer.’
His father clapped his hand on Hathaway’s back.
‘More confusion. Your mum won’t feel like going to Freddie’s funeral. She’s never got on with queers. But you and Charlie are set? It’ll give you a chance to see how the other half live.’
‘The queers?’ Charlie said.
‘No, you daft sod, East End gangsters and East End showbiz types. You know Freddy made a few films. It’ll be a big turnout.’
Hathaway and Charlie looked at each other. Nodded.
‘Good. I want to introduce you to a couple of people. Then we’ll do our bit of business with the twins. Sean, we won’t go mob-handed. We’ll show them what class is.’
‘Will McVicar be there?’ Hathaway said. Charlie gave him a puzzled look. Dennis Hathaway looked down at his hands.
‘Don’t see him around any more. They say he’s in the foundations of the Westway. Doing something useful for the first time in his life.’
Freddie Mills was buried at New Camberwell Cemetery. Hundreds of people turned out. Hathaway and Charlie filed past the grave behind Dennis Hathaway and Reilly. There were boxing gloves on the headstone and an urn in front of it.
‘See that urn?’ His father nudged Hathaway. ‘It’s got one of Freddy’s boxing gloves in it.’
‘Won’t someone nick it?’
Dennis Hathaway looked around.
‘Not with these villains around.’
‘Honour among thieves?’
‘Fear.’
A big man with a flat nose tapped Dennis Hathaway on the shoulder. Dennis looked up at him.
‘The brothers want a word.’
Hathaway and Charlie didn’t know what that word was. Hathaway’s father and Reilly stayed up in London and sent the lads back to Brighton. Hathaway was reluctant to go but his father insisted.
‘Nothing is going to kick off, Johnny. It’s a mi casa, su casa thing.’
‘What do you mean?’ Hathaway said.
‘I mean go home. Shag the arse off Ruth.’
‘I’m not seeing her anymore.’
Dennis Hathaway laughed.
‘OK, go and shag the arse off Charlie – in memory of Freddie.’
‘He should be so lucky,’ Charlie said.
‘Go on. Piss off, the pair of you. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.’
Hathaway was out the next day until mid-afternoon. He came home to the sound of his father raging and a woman crying. He hurried into the front room. His older sister, Dawn, was sprawled on the sofa, her hand to a bright red cheek. Her father was standing over her.
‘Dad?’
‘You keep out of this, John.’
‘But, Dad—’
His father turned on him, his big fists clenched. His feet were planted a yard apart. His tree trunk legs made him look immovable.
‘Do you want some too?’
‘Dad, she’s a girl. She’s Dawn.’
‘She’s a tart, is what she is.’ Dennis Hathaway looked more intently at his son. ‘Do you know about this?’
‘About what?’
‘Your sister’s got a bun in the bloody oven, that’s what.’
Hathaway looked at his sister, her hands now over her face. She was sobbing.
‘So?’ he said.
His father took a step closer, his face reddening.
‘So? That my daughter has been sleeping around is bad enough, but that they haven’t been using johnnies is bloody diabolical.’
‘I haven’t been sleeping around,’ she stumbled out between sobs.
‘Haven’t you? Is this the miraculous conception, then?’
‘I’ve only slept with one person. I love him.’
‘You’re a kid for fuck’s sake. What do you know about love?’
Dawn sat up on the sofa.
‘A lot more than you – the way you treat Mum.’
Dennis Hathaway loomed over her again. She shrank into the cushions.
‘I’ve never laid a hand on your mother. Never. Even though she’d try the patience of a saint.’
Dawn kept her eyes down.
‘There’s more to love than that,’ she said sullenly.
Hathaway slid on to the sofa beside her and put his arm round her. Their father looked down at the both of them.
‘If you love him you must be proud of him, and if you’re proud why won’t you tell me who he is?’
‘I’m not telling you who he is because you’ll do something to him.’
‘I’ll do something to him if you don’t tell me who he is.’
‘Where’s Mum?’ Hathaway said.
‘Bingo,’ his father said. ‘She’s got this to look forward to.’
The telephone rang. Dennis Hathaway looked from one to the other of them, his fists still clenched.
‘Of all the bloody days to hear this,’ he said, walking over to the phone and snatching it up. ‘What?’
He listened for a minute then put the phone down. He hurried over to the front door.
‘I’ll be back,’ he called over his shoulder.
In the silence following the slamming of the door, Hathaway said:
‘Why didn’t you tell Mum first so she could prepare the ground?’
‘Have you seen her lately?’ Dawn said. ‘She’s having one of her times. She’s in la-la land.’
‘When’s it due?’
‘Not for ages – I’m only about six weeks.’
Hathaway looked at his sister.
‘Are you pleased?’
She smiled. ‘Well, you know.’
‘What about this bloke, whoever he is?’
‘What about him?’
‘Does he know?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he pleased?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Is he going to stand by you?’
She laughed.
‘Stand by me? You sound like a Victorian parent.’
‘Is he?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re going to have it, then?’
‘Dad wants me to have an abortion. Knows this doctor in Hove. Abortionist to high society, he says, as if that matters.’
‘Who is the father?’
‘Will you tell Dad?’
‘He’ll have to find out sooner or later.’
Dawn leaned into Hathaway.
‘Will you tell him?’
‘No.’
She kissed his cheek. ‘Thanks.’
‘But you’ll have to tell him.’
She stood up and looked down on Hathaway, a coy look on her blotched face. It was a disconcerting combination.
‘You know him, actually.’
Hathaway raised an eyebrow.
‘That’s my Saint look. I’ve been practising.’
‘You’re a good-looking boy but Roger Moore you’re not.’
Hathaway shrugged.
‘So who is it?’
Dawn walked over to the French windows and looked out into the garden. Without turning round she said:
‘It’s Charlie.’
Hathaway was half-watching The Avengers when his father came back in. He’d been thinking about Charlie and Dawn together. Getting angry.
‘Where’s your sister?’
Hathaway kept his eyes on the screen.
‘Gone to bed in her old bedroom.’
‘Did she tell your mum?’
‘She’s already knitting socks.’
Dennis Hathaway smiled grudgingly.
‘I suppose if they get married straightaway it can be a honeymoon conception. She said she wasn’t far along.’
‘Six weeks. But, Dad, I have to ask – given our line of business, why do you care so much about the proprieties?’
The smile went.
‘You want to be uncle to a bastard?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘I’m hoping she won’t have it. I’ve suggested a doctor I know in Hove.’
‘Dawn said.’
‘Has she told you whose it is?’
Hathaway nodded.
‘And?’
‘It’s for Dawn to tell you.’
His father looked at him for a long moment but not with hostility.
‘OK. This has come at a bad time. There’s a lot going on. You know that.’
‘What happened with the twins?’
Hathaway pinched the end of his nose and sucked in air. He sighed.
‘Johnny boy, it’s war.’
SEVEN
Paint it Black
1966
‘We’re moving up in the world, Johnny boy. Bought a place on Tongdean Drive. You’re welcome to move with us. Dawn is. But I thought you might like a flat of your own. Got a nice one available overlooking the West Pier. Penthouse with a balcony.’
‘A penthouse?’ Hathaway said.
‘OK – a top-floor flat – but with a balcony to sit in the sunshine. And we can semaphore each other from pier to penthouse.’
Hathaway was excited at the thought, largely for sexual reasons. The group was getting a lot of interest from local girls but he had nowhere to take them. It felt seedy retiring to the back of the van, especially as the others were striking lucky too. Well, except Billy, who seemed to draw only earnest young men wanting to talk music.
‘I can stand on my own two feet,’ Hathaway said. His father looked steadily at him.
‘I know that, Johnny, but do it for your mother.’ He leaned forward and put his elbow on the table. ‘Come on, son, I’ll arm-wrestle you for it.’
Hathaway groaned and put his Coke down. His father was a good six inches shorter but he was sturdy and he had powerful arms. Hathaway’s longer forearms put him at a disadvantage because he had to start with a bent arm. He’d worked out the physics of it once.
‘I may as well just say “Yes” now.’
‘That’s always the best way with me,’ his father said.
The buzzer went off from the cashiers in the amusement hall and, a moment later, from the firing range. Reilly was sitting by the window with three foot-soldiers and Charlie.
‘Look lively,’ his
father said, immediately out of his chair. They heard a clattering of feet on the other side of the office door, then it burst open and a man with a stocking over his head rushed through, a pickaxe handle in his hand.
Reilly had somehow moved, without any appearance of haste, into a position just behind the door. As the man went past him Reilly leaned forward and, with an almost delicate flip of the wrist, sapped him behind his right ear. The man sprawled forward, his wooden stave rattling across the floor ahead of him.
Dennis Hathaway picked it up and threw it to his son.
‘Stay out of it but use this if you have to defend yourself.’
A half-dozen other men came roaring through the door with stocking masks and pickaxe handles.
Reilly stepped back and Dennis Hathaway moved to one side, dragging his own lead-filled cosh out of his pocket. Two of his men also had coshes; the third picked up a chair and prodded the legs at the man who was charging him. Charlie was on his feet with a flick knife in his hand, moving forward, focused.
‘Don’t kill anybody, Charlie,’ Reilly called.
‘Don’t intend to,’ Charlie shouted back, his voice trembling. ‘Just gonna mess ’em up a bit.’
He swung the knife at the man nearest to him with a long sweep of his arm. The man fell back against the bench, and Charlie slashed at the hand that held a pickaxe handle. The man grunted and dropped his weapon as a thick line of blood blossomed on his hand. Charlie picked up the stave with his free hand and cracked it hard against the man’s head. Hathaway heard something break.
Hathaway was dithering. He wasn’t afraid and he was armed, but he wasn’t quite sure what to do. Whacking somebody with his lump of wood could do severe damage.
Reilly dead-armed a short, broad-shouldered man with a hard blow to his elbow. The man dropped his stave, and Reilly picked it up and decked him with it. He moved to support Dennis Hathaway, holding off two men with wild swings of his stave. But more men tumbled into the room and Reilly had to swerve to avoid one man’s lunge. Three men backed him into a corner.
Two of Hathaway’s men were on the ground getting a good kicking. The man with the chair, backed into a corner, was holding his own.
There were four men on Hathaway’s dad now, and he was taking some blows on his arms and body, though he was defending his head. He was roaring. Charlie had pocketed his knife and was fending off two men with wild swings of the pickaxe handle. He looked enraged.
The Last King of Brighton Page 9
