Die Hard Mod (5 page)

The hippy woman looked confused.

‘Well whatever works for you, man. Just take it easy, yeah?’

One of the kids was tugging on her flowing Indian dress and she smiled again at Steve before walking towards The Dumb Waiter café where a guy with dreadlocks was sat at the window beckoning her to join him.

Steve followed her directions and soon he was on
Ship Street
where the sea became visible for the first time. He crossed
Kings Road
and went to lean on the railings so he could survey the coastline properly. Looking east, Steve experienced a child-like thrill to see the tacky splendour of the Palace Pier and felt magnetically drawn towards it, not least because he was getting hungry and knew that it would be somewhere he could get some fish and chips.

On the pier, Steve rummaged in his pockets and was pleased to discover that he had about a thirteen quid’s worth of change. He wandered the length of the decking, scoffing his food and looking disinterestedly at the gaming machines and tourist tat. Having seen the
North Laine
hipsters earlier in the day, Steve was struck by how the folk strolling on the pier seemed a different breed altogether.

‘So this is where all the square fuckers and out-of-towners come, then,’ he thought. ‘Time to find somewhere where a fella can get a dacent pint.’

He left the pier and walked westwards along the promenade until he came to the Fortune of War where groups of happy-looking twenty-somethings were congregating to enjoy a late afternoon drink in the sun.

Steve got a pint of Guinness in a plastic glass and took it onto the beach. He found a spot as far away from the gaggles of students and day-trippers as he could find, sat down on the pebbles and feasted on the view.

So here he was; a Mod sitting all on his lonesome on
Brighton
beach. Just like the part in
Quadrophenia
when Jimmy comes back to the scene of an earlier triumph only to find desolation and a drug-fuelled identity crisis. Only Steve didn’t feel like that. Despite everything he’d been through, with the taste of Guinness in his mouth and the sunshine on his face, he felt pretty good. He liked the way the light was catching the sea, he liked the sound of seagulls and boozy laughter and the smell of deep-fried doughnuts. Just as he knew that he liked three-button jackets with narrow lapels, The Small Faces, booze, George Best and good-looking brunettes with bobbed hairstyles, in that moment he realised with total certainty that he liked
Brighton
.

11

‘Oi!, wakey wakey. You’re gonna have to get used to early mornings, boss… the guv’nor will be expecting some punctuality and hard graft on your first day before he decides if he’ll keep you on.’

A mug of tea was placed at Steve’s bedside as he yawned and mumbled his thanks to Bobby.

‘Really appreciate this, mate… I won’t let ye down. I know you’ve stuck yer neck out for me sayin’ I’m a good worker ‘n all… I could be a useless numpty for all you know.’

‘C’ mon boss, remember the shipyard workers who built the Titanic… you Belfast boys are made of pure grit, at least that’s what my old man never tired of telling me, even though I heard from my uncle that he was always sneaking off to the bookies when he should have been grafting.’

Steve chuckled as he reached for his mug of tea.

‘Well no worries on that front, mate …wouldn’t know one end of a horse from another but I’ve done plenty of casual labouring in my time… not too casual though, honest.’

‘Glad to hear it, boss… now get into those work clothes that I’ve left out for you… gotta leave in ten minutes.’

The job was in
Brunswick Square
, only a few minutes walk from Bobby’s flat. They both grabbed a takeaway bacon sandwich and coffee on the way and were there in good time for the eight ‘o clock start.

With bright sunshine and the vivid blueness of the sea and the sky enhancing the scene, Steve was impressed with the location. The elegant Regency terraces exuded class and seemed to him to be every bit as exotic as anything he imagined the
Mediterranean
might have to offer. It felt like a far cry from the
North Belfast
backstreet that he’d run away from.

The building was being renovated by a local property developer whose long-term aim was to turn it into his own luxury home. In the seventies, the place had been converted into flats and many of the grand rooms had been fitted with lower ceilings to make them easier and cheaper to heat.

Steve’s first task was to help Bobby rip the ceilings down on the top floor to reveal the original features. It was a filthy job and the pair wore protective masks to stop them choking on the dust.

Steve was true to his word about being a grafter, eager to prove to Bobby that his faith in him was justified. They worked without a break until
one o’clock
when Bobby offered to do the day’s sandwich run.

‘I fancy a cheese and ham baguette myself, boss. Yourself?’

‘Aye, that’ll do rightly for me too. A can o’ Coke and a Mars Bar too, please.’

While Bobby was away sorting out their lunch, Steve rested himself against the wall on the hallway outside the room they were gutting. He liked the feeling of knowing that the lunch he was about to devour was well-earned. An Ulster Presbyterian work ethic had been drummed into him since childhood and the rebellious streak that he’d developed from adolescence onwards had done little to shake off the conditioning.

Steve was lightly dozing when he heard footsteps coming up the stairs and shouted a greeting to Bobby.

‘I tell ye what, mate… I’m fuckin’ starvin’… hope them baguettes are king-sized bastards …’

Steve rubbed his dirty hands against his jeans in anticipation but when he looked up, it wasn’t Bobby standing at the top of the stairs. It was a vision of Mod elegance that made him gasp in admiration.

Facially, the guy resembled a younger Clint Eastwood, with small piercing eyes but with a sharper haircut that anything Steve had ever seen on Clint. His dark blue mohair suit looked like it had been painted onto his slim athletic frame and consisted of a three-button box jacket with one inch side vents and tight, narrow trousers tapering onto an immaculate pair of black Cuban heels. The ensemble was completed by a silk paisley shirt with button-down collars.

Steve felt like giving him a round of applause but instead, nervously blurted out a compliment.

‘Hey man, really dig the threads!’

The be-suited guy walked slowly came forward with a forced-looking smile and Steve quickly stood up to greet him. He held out his hand for Steve to shake.

‘I’m Anthony Cubitt.’

‘Hi Anthony, I’m Steve …just been guttin’ one of the rooms up here. I’m guessin’ this is your gaff, then?’

As Steve talked he could feel Cubitt’s grip on his hand get tighter. He stared straight into Steve’s eyes, unblinkingly.

‘Listen, bogtrotter. I don’t give a damn what your name is or what unskilled task you’re undertaking. Understand this. Don’t ever address me in that vulgar manner again. In fact, don’t assume that you are in a position to converse with me in any way whatsoever. Just get on with whatever inconsequential drudgery you’re involved in and keep your mouth shut when I’m around. As far as I’m concerned, the likes of you are scum.’

The bone-crushing grip on Steve’s hand kept intensifying until his eyes watered. Looking pleadingly into Cubitt’s icy-blue eyes, Steve was in little doubt that the man was psychotic. He was on the verge of crying out in pain when Bobby’s appearance on the scene disturbed Cubitt’s concentration and he released Steve’s hand. Without a word, Cubitt turned around, brushed past Bobby as if he wasn’t there and walked straight down the stairs.

When he was sure Cubitt was out of earshot, Bobby asked Steve what had occurred.

‘Please boss, don’t tell me that you said something to annoy the Ace Face.’

‘Ace Face? What are ye on about? And what’s the crack with all that posh lingo he comes out with?’

‘Ace Face is the nickname that the boys came up with ‘cos of the Mod clobber. Not that we’d ever let him get wind of that. The snooty voice is just something that he’s worked on ‘cos I’ve heard on good authority that his dad was a street-cleaner from
Worthing
.’

‘But he has to be gay, yeah?’ said Steve. ‘That theatrical manner ‘n all… camp as fuck eh?’

Bobby snorted. ‘Don’t you fucking believe it. He’s a proper shag merchant but only with industrial strength condoms apparently. He’s a hygiene freak on top of everything else. But the point is, boss, I know you’re enjoying the novelty of being in groovy, happening Brighton-by-the-sea but there’s some dark stuff that can go on in this town that would make that mugging the other night look like a picnic… believe me, you really don’t want to get on the wrong side of Anthony Cubitt.’

Steve laughed nervously.

‘C’mon Bobby, I know he seemed like a bit of a nutter ‘n all but surely it’s just a bit of an act… tryin’ to cultivate an image for himself or somethin’.’

‘Okay, I’ll spell it out for you, boss. He’s done time for GBH and manslaughter, there seems to be an unfortunate tendency for his business rivals to have nasty unexplained accidents and the last judge to send him down described him as evil incarnate. Yeah, he’s got an image alright.’

12

The rest of the week passed without incident at
Brunswick Square
and there was no sign of Cubitt as Steve and Bobby kept up their work-rate and made a good impression on the foreman. On Friday afternoon at knocking-off time, Steve was handed £300 in twenties and tens.

‘Right, there’s only one thing for it on a Friday afternoon at five’ said Steve as he handed Bobby a fifty for the week’s rent. ‘C’mon, let’s go and get fuckin’ blocked!’

Bobby shook his head.

‘Steady on, boss. I’d normally be right with you but tonight’s different. We should go home, get washed and fed and then prepare ourselves for a quality night out.’

‘Yer gettin’ me excited here, Bobby. What’s so special about tonight that I have to delay the gratification of gettin’ a lovely pint o’ stout down my neck?’

‘Don’t wanna spoil the surprise, boss. C’mon, let’s get out of this filthy clobber and show the women of
Brighton
how well we can scrub up.’

Steve had a blue and white striped t-shirt identical to one that he’d seen worn by Brian Jones from The Rolling Stones in a 1965 photo. He ironed the creases out and when he pulled on his white
Levis
and a pair of tan desert boots to complete the outfit, he went to look at himself in the full-length mirror in the bathroom. As he fussed with his hair, he wasn’t under any illusions that he was devastatingly handsome but he still thought he looked pretty sharp.

‘That’ll do rightly,’ said Steve, winking at his reflection. Bobby knocked at the bathroom door.

‘Oi,
Belfast
boy! Time to get a move on.’

13

It was a mild evening and the pair took a slow stroll along
Upper North Street
and then onto Clifton Terrace where Bobby wanted to show Steve what were, for his money, the most desirable houses in
Brighton
.

‘This is where all the swanky merchants would have lived in Victorian times, boss. Just imagine having your bedroom on the top floor of one of these gaffs… views over the town and across the sea.’

Steve could smell lavender on the breeze from the residents’ private park across the road from where they were walking.

‘Yeah, there’s bigger and more expensive houses all over the town but there’s just something about this place… it’s peaceful …ya know what I mean, boss?’

Steve tried picturing himself living somewhere like Clifton Terrace with a family of his own. It was a sweet dream but he felt slightly pathetic when he caught himself envisaging Jeanie as being part of it.

‘Never mind how the other half lives Bobby, I’m dyin’ o’ thirst here. Where’s this pub ye reckon I’ll like, then?’

‘Five minutes away, boss…almost there.’

14

Steve knew that the Heart and Hand was his kind of boozer from the moment he walked in. It looked like somebody’s 1970s living room with fading décor to match,
Louie Louie
by The Kingsmen was on the jukebox and the place was packed with indie kids, ageing rockers and a smattering of Mods. He also noticed a sufficient quota of females to reassure him that it wasn’t one of those male-dominated pubs where the atmosphere would be getting more testosterone-charged and lairy as last orders approached.

Bobby went to the bar and came back with two pints of
Harvey
’s.

‘So what’s this gear you’re expecting me to drink, then? Looks like cold tea with a bit o’ froth on top.’