“Come with me if you want to love.” It wasn’t the greatest chat up line, and probably sounds like a Hollywood cliché now, but to a very naïve villager, just two weeks shy away from home, in 1968 no less, it sounded mysterious, dramatic and everything my 16 year old hearthad wanted to hear. I was also more than a little turned on.
The late ‘60’s were the time when it was possible to be more open with yourself and others,hence the reason why I moved to Brighton. I knew that no one in my family would ever understand; they had their fixed, Victorian rigid ways of behaving and seeing themselves. The ‘60’s to them were an anathema and had I come out to them I would have been disgraced and expulsed as a leper. Far better to bite the bullet and move away of my own free will. No note, no apology, no word of explanation –whatever heartache my leaving created (and I very much doubted there would be any) would be nothing compared to what I had been subjected to since my apotheosis.
Realising myself was the most important thing in my life and I knew that living in Brighton would best suit my transformative needs.
Even in the late ‘60’s Brighton was known for its gay scene. Once you had avoided the Mods and Rockers, who frowned heavily (at least on the surface) on anything pertaining to the ‘fag’ scene, there was a certain degree of freedom. I had learnt to hide my proclivity, as had most of us; as much as I admired Quintin’s audacity I did feel he had some kind of death-wish (if not a degree of sublimated self-loathing).
Although the Sexual Offences Act had made things, at least on the legal side, easier for us the general public’s attitude to us was just as before, if not more so. Decriminalising it was akin to waving a red rag to their bullish demeanours. I remember a discussion at a local bar when a burly Welshman drunkenly stated:
‘Of course, it could never happen in Aberystwyth!’struggled hard to keep my mirth contained. Upon relating this to another chap at the Spotted Dog he simply replied,
‘Oh, really. Perhaps you should have told him that Aberystwyth is actually advertised as the Brighton of West Wales! Shows how much he knows, eh?’
It was in the Curtain Club where I met Saul though. I sat by the bar, nervously nursing my Babycham when he crept up behind me and whispered huskily into my ear.
“Come with me if you want to love” before nibbling my earlobe. That alone surprised me as there were strategically placed people who had been hired specifically to stop that kind of thing from happening.
The ‘60’s may have been permissive if you were straight but there were strict rules still forbidding men to even dance close together! And if two men so much as touched on the dance floor they were quickly separated.
Saul was a Gold Card holder though, which allowed him to queue jump… and coupled with his size and demeanour few people made him do anything against his will (let alone telling him to stop something he was enjoying). He wasn’t a bully –there were plenty of butch, muscly Northerners, brash and belligerent, to fill that criteria- he just knew how to get his own way. He was manipulative but no one seemed to mind that too much –those that objected were seldom seen again. I was flattered by the attention but shocked that anyone could be so bold.
Saul sat down next to me and ordered a ‘Shirley Bassey’ before asking:
“Which are you, boy? Bitch or butch?” His voice was deep and masterful, suede covering a granite interior. The pink, raspberry monstrosity was plonked down in front of me and I’d taken a sip as he asked me the question and nearly choked on the sweetness.
“Neither.” I snapped.
“Ah, a bold boy, eh? Just a bijou chicken then. Ripe as a charver should be.”
“I’m not a fucking whore.” I snapped back loudly, ready to throw the contents of the glass over him.
“Keep it down, keep it down, lad, eh?” He hissed. “Don’t get your knickers twisted. You are a bona boy though, aren’t you?”
“Would I be here otherwise?”
“You’d be surprised, lad… I’ve seen many a police try to make solicitations, lead unsuspecting chaps out to the alley where his friends are awaiting only to jump on the poor dilly..”
I blanched at this. I knew that that sort of thing happened but thought that the Curtain Club was beyond it.. being a supper club. Lord, how naïve I was!
“I can tell you’re not police, son. Sorry to cast such aspersions on your fine character. Let us start over, yes? My name is Saul.” He held out his large, ringed hand out to me as if he was royalty (and I suppose he was at the time).
“Yes… I know who you are.” I replied, feeling my Adam’s apple vibrate with the words. I tried not to blush. “My name’s Les.”
“My fame precedes me, fantabulosa! Fresh of the bus and he knows me already. Do you like; what you see?”
I didn’t have to think before answering, but I didn’t want to seem too eager. I had clocked him upon the first time I entered the club.
The Curtain Club was under the Queen’s Hotel, on the Kings Road side. I felt a little lost the first time I entered, star-struck upon finally reaching Brighton and making connections so quickly in The Spotted Dog. It was easy to mark those people of the persuasion –we had our own language! (Saul dallied with it but only managed to mangle it further). Pretty soon I had been felt up and prospected before being led through the Twittens to the Curtain Club. I wasn’t prepared for the entrance fee but duly paid it; it was a ‘supper club’ after all.
The entrance fee got you an inedible and indigestible meal but also meant that the establishment could serve alcohol and play music up until one in the morning.
Upon paying the entrance fee I was led through the arcade-like foyer and down the steps. On the right was the small bar where quiet music played and sweet nothings were whispered, but to the left was the dance floor. This was where I first saw Saul.
He wore a fitted grey two piece tweed suit, a peach paisley tie and polished shoes and he just swayed out of time to “Whiter Shade Of Pale” with another man. He seemed both wraith like but powerful; a body builder physique, lantern jawed but his movements were serene, dreamy. He seemed totally unaware of the other man he danced with.
“You’ll do.” I replied and hoped that my gamble paid off. I was a quick learner (or so I thought) and knew that I was being tested. I was pretty sure that Saul wanted me, now I was to know for sure. He clapped me on the back just as the rest of the bar took a collective in-breath. I had no idea who I was getting involved with. I’ve asked myself since whether I would have changed my tactic had I known any differently, and I honestly don’t know.
“I like your spirit, Les! By God, I’ll do, will I? Let’s drink to it, shall we?”
“How about a proper drink? Whiskey?” I replied, not wanting to take another sip of that concoction.
“Why not… and then after the drink maybe something a little more?”
He took me upstairs. He had a permanent suite at the Queens overlooking the sea and he took me three times that evening. He must’ve known I was cherry, I did a poor job at hiding it, but the first time he was gentle; loving almost –if that was possible in such a man. I knew I wasn’t his first, and probably not his only, but he made me feel as if I was. The second time was mutual lust, I was spurred on by his desire of me and the newfound freedom that I found. We collapsed in each other’s arms on the bed, sated –or at least I was. He just lie there, staring intensely out the window. He must have waited for me to be asleep –oh, he could be patient when he wanted to- and before I knew it he had tied my hands and feet to the bed. I woke up splayed out like a sacrifice, face down, and he was sitting on the chair by the bed, watching me. I was afraid but knew that it would do no good; something told me the more afraid I became the worse it would get for me.
“You’re mine, see? You promise to be mine?” He said, flat like an automaton; none of the charm that won me over just a short while ago. There was an intense look, a coldness I’d never seen before in a person and I could only nod. “Good. And because you’re mine we’ll seal it.. I’ll brand you as mine and you’ll never be anyone elses.”
He took out his cigarette lighter from one pocket and a knife from another. He unfolded the knife and held the blade over the naked flame of the lighter until it glowed red hot. “If you love me you’ll not scream out. If you love me then this won’t hurt at all.” He said and marked me as his own. I didn’t scream.
Afterwards he was loving, kissing his brand before taking me violently; making me his own in body and soul. I didn’t resist.
That was one of only a handful of times that he became violent towards me, though he ruled me with a velvet fist. He only had to change his intonation or gesture a certain way and people knew that his mood was about to shift and left him alone. We were in a café on the seafront when one of the waiters misread the situation.
“Your bill, sir?” The waiter had said as Saul put his coat on.
“You’re new here, I take it?” He replied, always willing to give people the benefit of the doubt.
“Yes, but I’m not sure what that has to do with anything.” The waiter replied imperiously. Saul called this type of person a Jobsworth Johnny; much akin to the security guard taking ownership of the whole property, this man was too wound up for his own good.
“Put it on the tab.” Saul growled.
“I hardly think so, Sir. This isn’t a pub, this is a respectable establishment.” Things happened too quickly to establish cause and effect.
One minute the waiter was squaring off against Saul, a scrawny 5ft bootlicker against the goliath; the next he was writhing about on the floor, blood pouring from his lacerated face; broken bloodstained crockery strewn around him lik china snow. Saul led me outside quietly whilst the rest of the patrons looked on in horror. No one did anything to stop us; they knew Saul, knew what happened to those people who crossed him. It was just a shame no one had told the waiter.
A week later I found myself working at the exact same tea shop as there was now a vacancy. Saul felt that a job would do me good; build my character; he didn’t want people to think that I was sponging on him and he would always be assured quality service when he visited. I was treated with almost religious awe and forbidden to do anything demeaning like washing the dishes or sweeping up, regardless of how many times I asked.
The fear was that Saul would find out and take offense so I was promoted to Head Waiter, much to the chagrin of the previous chap, Donald; but what could he do? Anyone who made a complaint against Saul wasn’t heard from again and pride over a job is no reason to risk your life. It did mean that I was isolated from my fellow workers regardless of how many times I tried to make friends with them; they all thought I was trying to gather information on them for Saul and either went out of their way to be nice to me or ignored me completely.
Every night he would meet me outside in his Bentley, calmly straddling the double yellow lines knowing that no one would ever ticket his car. He’d always ask how my day went and I’d lie convincingly. I was consistently tipped over and above the usual amount by the customers and quite often gave the money to beggars I’d pass in the street, sickened by the prospect –this was not money I had earned, it was a form of tithe. One evening Saul raised this with me on the journey home.
“Why do you give your hard earned money to those fuckers that’ve never worked in their life?” I couldn’t figure out how he knew what I’d been up to unless…
“Have you been following me?” I asked, shocked that he had resorted to such Machiavellian tactics, especially when I had given him no reason to resort to such things.
“It’s necessary.” He replied simply as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “More for your safety than anything. I worry for you.” Saul worried about nothing and for no one… or a least that had been the case up until recently.
I was never allowed to read newspapers whe living with him; we never talked about what he did for a living. All I knew was that he was some kind of entrepreneur, a promoter of talent and a risk taker –he told me that on our second ‘date’.
Working at the cafe, however, allowed me the chance to read other peoples newspapers when they’d finish with them. From that I managed to figure out what kind of entrepreneur Saul really was and why people were so afraid of him. Recently though there had been a new business concern, a rival promoter had set up shop and threatened his status quo.
“Nothing’s going to happen to me.” I said, trying to placate him.
“People could use you to get at me… I couldn’t allow that.”
“How do you know that for sure?” I replied.
“That’s what I’d do.”
So he had me followed. I suppose I should have taken offense at that, but honestly I couldn’t. I was doing nothing wrong and despite all I’d learned to the contrary I did actually love him –I saw a side of him that few people even dreamed existed and that made me feel special. He rarely raised a hand to me…. So I saw this as just an extension of his caring. But I also saw it as further proof that he was becoming more paranoid and, though he would never admit to it, afraid.
His once stable business was crumbling. Saul was fast finding out that strength and will were not enough; his competitors had something that far outstripped his bullyboy tactics. They were ruthless and didn’t care how they gained power –there was nothing they wouldn’t do. His business associates were deserting him in droves, more with every week that passed and there was nothing that Saul could do.
He was too rooted in the old fashioned ways of crime, still held to a creed that this new generation spat on –there was no way to reason with people like that.
The last time that I saw him he was gaunt, his once lantern jaw and butch physique seemed scarecrow thin and the fire had dimmed in his eyes.
He woke me in the very early hours of the morning, there was a sea fret blanketing the town, lulling it to a false sense of security but Saul used it for cover. He hushed me out of bed and bade me to get dressed –my suitcase was already packed waiting for me. We left through the side door, carefully watching every shadow. I knew enough not to talk, the fear in his eyes spoke more than either of us could say.
Despite all this I felt safe; whatever happened I was with him and all was right in the world.
It was only when we were in the car driving inland that he finally talked to me. His voice was coarse, broken.
“You’ve got to forget about me. You’re gonna forget about me. Whatever we had, whatever we were going to have it’s all gone now but I’m damned if I’ll let them take you away from me. I’d rather die.” I looked at him, the shock now registering. “I’m not going to, but I need you to be out of it. I can’t protect you and do what I need to do…. So I’m going to send you away, see. No one else knows where you lived so you’ll be safe… and when this is all over I’ll come for you. You’ll have to get the train from here to Lewes and then back home, but it’ll be safer dropping you here. No one would ever think to look for you here.”
He dropped me outside Southease train station, in the middle of nowhere at 5 in the morning. I was wrapped up warm but felt cold from his haunted look. “I will come back for you, you’re the only one.” And he was gone.
I got home alright. The family made a fuss of me, despite me coming out to them. Absence really does make the heart grow fonder, it seems –and I missed Saul terribly. I told my family nothing of what went on with him and no one pushed me too hard. The time with Saul had changed me, I was no longer guilty of my secret and managed to walk tall. Every day I checked the newspapers to find out if anything had happened to him. There was a stabbing outside the Queens Hotel but no names were mentioned; sources put it down to a lovers tiff gone wrong; but I never saw anything else…. And I never heard from Saul again.
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