and Hathaway dressed like thirties gangsters in wide-lapelled, baggy-trousered striped suits. ‘I can see Bonnie but which one is Clyde?’
‘This is the fashion, Dad,’ Hathaway said.
‘Yeah, I know that. I saw the film. That’s why all the gels are in berets and midi-skirts. I saw that Warren Beatty when he was over in London a little while ago. Shags anything that moves, apparently. He was with that Hove girl, Julie Christie. I was in the World’s End pub down the end of the King’s Road with Bindon, when Bindon did his helicopter thing, and Beatty almost choked on his orange juice.’
‘Bindon?’ Hathaway said.
‘John Bindon. Small-time villain with a huge dick. He’s an extra in a lot of films. Plays thugs, usually. Typecasting. Twirls it round like a helicopter blade. Bindon shags all the film stars. Might only be an extra but he’s got a lot of extra, if you know what I mean.’
‘And Julie Christie is from Hove?’
‘Missed your chance there, John. She used to work in rep at the Palace Pier theatre after she got expelled from St Leonards.’
‘When?’
‘Back in the late fifties.’
‘Dad, I was about thirteen.’
His father raised an eyebrow.
‘So? When I was thirteen-’
‘Dennis,’ Reilly said quietly.
‘Yeah, well. Another time.’ Dennis Hathaway waved at Charlie and Hathaway.
‘Sit down. I got some news. Hot off the presses. Philip Simpson is resigning next year. Scotland Yard hot on his tail.’
Hathaway nodded.
‘Is that it?’ his father said, sitting back in his chair. ‘Is that all the excitement you can muster?’
‘He’s still upset about Julie Christie,’ Charlie said. ‘How will that affect us?’
Dennis Hathaway’s smile back at Charlie was conspiratorial and Hathaway felt a twinge of jealousy.
‘What do you think, Charlie?’
‘Nature abhors a vacuum,’ Hathaway blurted before Charlie could say anything. His father looked at him and laughed. ‘I always said you read too many books. But you’re right, you’re right. Now, look, if you’re serious about this, we need to do it together.’ He pointed at Hathaway. ‘And if we’re doing it together, you’ve got to give up these ideas of travelling in India barefoot and giving all your wealth away.’
Charlie chuckled. Dennis Hathaway turned to him. ‘Plus, there are other people going to have the same idea. We need to keep hold of what we’ve already got and move quickly for the rest.’
‘We go after Gerald Cuthbert?’ Charlie said.
Dennis Hathaway shook his head.
‘Not overtly. He’s too close to the twins. But Simpson seems to think they are on their way down. For now we outmanoeuvre Cuthbert but we don’t go for him head-on.’
Charlie and Hathaway both nodded.
‘Am I clear?’ Dennis Hathaway said.
‘Sure, Dad.’
‘Charlie?’
‘Whatever you say, sir.’
Dennis Hathaway gave him an intense look.
‘I don’t want to hear about any clowns running amok in Milldean.’
Hathaway and Charlie went to the folk club towards the end of the evening for after-hours drinks. They were overdressed so left their jackets in Hathaway’s car and went in wearing waistcoats over rolled-up shirt- sleeves and gangster trousers. There were still thirty-odd people sitting around drinking and listening to Bob Dylan on the jukebox. A lot of straggly hair and beards. Women with long plaited hair and dirndle skirts.
Bill and Dan were both in granddad T-shirts and second-hand waistcoats these days. They both had walrus moustaches. Bill had turned vegetarian and was living in Lewes. As Hathaway and Charlie walked across to them, they saw a swelling around Dan’s eye, the beginnings of a shiner.
‘What happened?’ Hathaway said.
‘Bit of a barney,’ Billy said, tugging at his moustache. ‘Dan got in the way.’
‘Folkies fighting?’ Charlie snorted. ‘I thought they were all peaceniks. Little boxes, little boxes, all that frigging Pete Seeger stuff.’
Hathaway grinned whilst he tilted Dan’s head to look at his eye.
‘Charlie is off again. You know it’s changed, mister.’
Charlie ignored him.
‘What did they do? Hit you with their lutes? Or their sandals?’
‘It was this one big bugger,’ Dan said. ‘He’s on stage and his manager tries to leave without paying him. He’s sees his manager legging it, stops singing, shouts “Oy, he’s got my fucking money”, drops his guitar and chases after him down the centre aisle.
‘He catches him, virtually turns him upside down to get the money out of his pockets, gives him a couple of slaps for trying it on, then turns back to the stage. I’ve come down to stop the fight and he whacks me in passing, goes back up and finishes singing “Spencer the Rover”.’
Charlie laughed.
‘What’s the world coming to when even a fucking folkie can best you, Danny?’
‘Fighting’s not my area of expertise.’
‘Well finking and fucking aren’t either, so where’s that leave you?’
‘Easy, Charlie,’ Hathaway said. ‘That eye must hurt like hell.’
Charlie clamped his arm round Dan’s shoulder, despite Dan trying to shrug him off.
‘Sorry, mate. Only kidding you.’
Hathaway glanced over as the door opened and was surprised to see Sean Reilly walk in. He was even more surprised to see him in jeans and an open-necked shirt. Reilly gave him a little nod and walked to the far end of the bar.
‘Scuse me a sec,’ Hathaway said. He walked over.
‘Sean?’ he said.
‘John. Wondered if I could have a quiet word?’
‘Is Dad OK?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘Has he got something for me?’
Reilly shook his head.
‘No. This is just me. Wondered if I could pop round your place?’
‘Tonight?’
Reilly shrugged.
‘If it’s not too late – you’re a late-night person, I think. Tomorrow if not.’
Hathaway didn’t show his puzzlement. Or, indeed, his suspicion.
‘Sure,’ he said. He looked at his watch. ‘About one?’
Reilly nodded.
‘Thanks, John.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re a fucking folkie too, Mr Reilly.’
Charlie had wandered over and now slapped Reilly on the back.
‘Sean. More of a blues man, I suppose. Son House, Blind Mamie Forehand, Big Mama Thornton – that kind of stuff.’
‘You might as well be talking a foreign language,’ Charlie said, leaning close.
Reilly smiled and raised his glass.
‘Here’s to music in all its forms.’
At one in the morning, Hathaway led Reilly on to his balcony. The lights had gone off on the piers and along
