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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