A walk around Brighton locations that feature in books.

LITTLE GREEN PIG'S BIG BRIGHTON BOOK WALK

A sponsored trot through the streets of Brighton and the pages of books set here.

On Sunday 16th April, a group of Trustees, charity volunteers and friends will be walking 5 miles through Brighton, following a trail of locations featured in Brighton-set books. From Dorothy Koomson, Peter James and Juno Dawson to Bethan Roberts, Nick Sharratt, Lizzie Enfield, William Shaw, Elly Griffiths, Graham Bartlett, Eva Carter, Umi Sinha and Sue Teddern, and even Jane Austen, William Thackeray and of course Graham Greene's Brighton Rock,  all these weave their stories through the streets of Brighton, and we'll be stopping at featured locations to listen to readings of extracts set there, many recorded especially for us by the authors themselves. From bodies found on beaches to snowmen flying over the pavilion domes, from grand balls in seafront hotels and squadrons of Regency soldiers camped out on Hove Lawns to criminals on the run emerging from the smoke of Brighton station, we will follow in the footsteps of others' imaginations, raising money so that local children can have opportunities to tell their own stories and unleash the power of their own imaginations.

Brighton-based young people's writing charity, Little Green Pig, supports children and young people to develop writing skills, confidence and communication skills. We believe passionately in working to improve young people's wellbeing and life chances, giving them space to grow, inspire their imaginations and find their voice. For over 10 years we've worked across East and West Sussex in areas of need with more than 5,500 children and young people between 6 - 18 years. 

We're a small charity and rely heavily on donations. We're very grateful for anything you can donate!

Link to donate: https://www.justgiving.com/campaign/lgpbigbrightonbookwalk

Location:
Big Beach Cafe

Transcript:
Shortly after 7.15pm Roy Grace and Detective Inspector Glenn Branson hurried, heads bowed against the driving rain, towards the battery of bright lights illuminating the small Crime Scene Investigation tent that had been erected a short distance in front of the Big Beach Café at Hove Lagoon. It was surrounded by two cordons of fluttering blue and white crime scene tape. To the right, inside the inner cordon, was a second similar-sized tent.

So much for a quiet weekend, Grace was thinking. First a possible abduction, and now this. If the abduction was real – and he was increasingly certain that was the case – he would have to delegate one case as he couldn’t run two simultaneously.

They were greeted by the tall, friendly figure of the duty CID inspector, Charlie Hepburn, in a blue, hooded oversuit and protective shoes, and the uniformed duty inspector, Roy Apps, with rain dripping off his peaked cap. ‘Nice weather for ducks,’ Apps said.
‘Yeah, well you should know,’ quipped Branson. Apps had been a gamekeeper in his former life before joining Sussex Police.
‘Haha!’
‘Nice to see you, Charlie,’ Roy Grace said. ‘How are Rachel, Archie and my namesake, Grace?’
‘All good, thanks – Archie and Grace are getting very excited for Christmas.’
‘I would be, too,’ Grace replied, ‘if I’d done any of my bloody shopping! Anyhow, what do we have?’
‘A pretty good mess, Hepburn said. ‘Why the hell didn’t they stop the moment they uncovered the bones, instead of carrying on?’
‘Want us to suit up? Grace asked.
‘I suppose you’d better, so Dave doesn’t get even more pissed off.’ He jerked a finger at the tent over the path, right behind him.

Grace and Branson went into the second tent, out of the rain. Chris Gee, a Crime Scene Investigator – formerly known as a Scenes of Crime Officer – handed them each an oversuit and shoes and offered them tea or coffee, which they both declined.
They struggled into the suits, pulled on the shoes, went back out and signed the scene log. Then they followed Hepburn into the brightly lit tent covering the exposed parts of the skeleton…

starling

goldfinch

hoopoe

Location:
The seafront promenade opposite Langdale Gardens

Transcript:
We’ve come to Granny Morag’s beach hut. Technically, it’s mine, yes, but it doesn’t feel like mine. It’ll always be hers, even when I pass it on to Betina. This place was so much about Granny Morag and I like to think of it as hers because she was the one person whose belief in me never waivered, not for a moment. If I think of it as hers, then she’s still here with me. 

The locks open up quite easily because Alain regularly brings Betina down here, especially now that we’re officially into summer. They had quite a cool little routine going without me, where he would pick her up from school and bring her to the beach before getting something for dinner. Serena marches in and sits on the left-hand side of the bench at the back of the hut. We painted the bench seat a bubble-gum pink to match the door colour that Betina chose so it’s like being inside a stick of rock in here.

Location:
Marrocco's restaurant 

Transcript:
At half nine, I get up and make myself some toast and coffee. An hour later, I wake up when the plate falls off the bed. I must have turned the radio on because the Reverend Richard Coles is interviewing Ken and Betty Reynolds who met in the playground in 1965 and haven’t spent the day apart since.

By noon, I’m up and showered and ready to get some sea air. I stroll down George Street and hang a left. I may as well do a sea front walk from Hove to Brighton.

It’s as busy as usual for a sunny Saturday. Runners and skateboarders thundering past. Over-excited dogs chasing balls. There are even one or two wet-suited swimmers, braving the winter waves. When we moved here, I thought I’d swim every day, but I must have gone in three, maybe four times. When you’ve got it on your doorstep, honestly, what’s the hurry?
I see that I’m approaching Marrocco’s. Tanya and I could never pass that place without buying a scoop each of dulce de leche. Marrocco’s was our favourite restaurant, with seafood pasta to die for. If I hadn’t scared Nancy off, we could have gone there on our first date. I sit on a bench and my mobile rings. Maybe it’s Tanya: Dora’s feeling better and wants to stay over for the rest of the weekend. I could pick her up within the hour if I tried. I have broccoli.

Location:
Hove Lawns, by Hove Plinth 

Transcript:
31 December 1999. Kerry.
Six minutes. I have six minutes left to be kissed.
Three hundred and sixty seconds and counting, if I don’t want to end another year – let’s face it, an entire millennium – as the only seventeen-year-old girl in Brighton who has never snogged another human being.
Most of the girls in the sixth form have gone all the way. You can tell from the way they move: dancing wildly on the shingle, wearing heels that keep sinking into the gaps between the pebbles, unsteady and sexy and—
‘Which do you think will implode first, the National Grid or air traffic control?’ Tim says, passing me the can of Diamond White. 
When I raise it to my lips, all that’s left is apple froth. I look up at the sky. ‘You probably shouldn’t be quite so excited about the idea of Armageddon.’
‘Makes me feel quite reckless, being on the brink of disaster.’ 
Reckless isn’t Tim’s style, but his eyes are bright: I can see the beach fires the hippies have lit reflected in them. Except it’s not just the flames. There’s something else in his face, an intensity . . .
Oh shit.
He’s going to try to kiss me.
He mustn’t.
I move backwards, out of reach, and I break eye-contact, staring resolutely over Tim’s shoulder to where Joel and his mates are having a knockabout on the Lawns, lit by the Victorian lamps that line the Prom. The frost has set the earth like concrete, but the boys don’t seem to notice. They’re too busy trying to outrun Joel, even though they know they never will.
He moves twice as fast as the others, the football always at his feet. He was in the same class as Tim and me, until he got signed for a football apprenticeship by the Dolphins FC. He’s one in a million. Everyone either wants to be him or be with him, me included. 
At the edge of my vision, Joel is running. And then he’s not.
He doesn’t trip, or throw out an arm to right himself or break his fall. Instead, he drops, face down, legs outstretched. The boy who fell to earth.
The others play on. I wait for Joel to get up. What’s he playing at? He’s not a joker the way Ant is, and I can’t believe he’s risked injury by falling so clumsily. Joel was the only one of the cool kids never to smoke or drink. Even tonight he’s stuck to orange juice . . .
Ant pivots back, calling out, ‘Come on, Joel, you knob,’ and when he reaches his best friend, he nudges him with his big black shoe. Once. Twice. The third time is more of a kick.
Joel doesn’t move.
Certainty strikes me like lightning. He’s in trouble. I drop the can of cider – and though I fully intend to walk towards Joel, my legs have other ideas.
Even as I run across the Lawns, I’m cursing myself for being so obvious, but I cannot stop. After keeping my crush secret for nearly seven years, I’m about to blow it, at three bloody minutes to midnight.

Eva Carter - How To Save a Life (extract 1)

Location:
Hove Promenade, opposite Palmeira Square

Transcript:
‘Why are we down here so early on a Sunday, Kobster?’
My son, of course, side-eyes me, eviscerates me with his glare for daring to call him Kobster. Only Sazz is allowed to do that. ‘Sorry, I mean, Light of my Life, My Illustrious Firstborn, why are we down here so early?’
‘You know why,’ he replies.
The sea is calm today, it sits out on the horizon like layers of blown glass. The sun has edged itself into the sky and the clouds are hanging low but aren’t yet threatening rain. We’re treated to interludes of bright yellow sunlight as we walk towards Brighton from the block opposite our road that leads down towards the sea. 
Only a couple of dog walkers and joggers are out this early. Everyone else is at home or in bed. 
‘I do not know why,’ I state. Even though I absolutely do. 
‘Mum, the seagulls are up to something. It’s my job to find out what.’ 
‘They’re not up to something,’ I say quietly. 
‘They are! They are plotting to take over,’ he says. ‘The things they do, it’s not right. They’re up to something.’ 
It’s a good thing Kobi doesn’t know about the movie The Birds – it would give credence to this theory. 
‘What do you think they’re actually going to do?’
‘Take over the world, of course.’
‘Of course.’
We pass a dark green bench, one that I regularly used to sit on when it was just me in that house, and it took coming to the sea-front and experiencing that expanse to make me appreciate my flat wasn’t too big for one, after all. 
‘Can I borrow your phone, please?’ Kobi asks. ‘I need to take some photos.’ 
‘Nope.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not encouraging this nonsense, Kobi. Your good buddy Sazz might indulge it, but not me.’
‘Fine,’ he huffs, sounding exactly like me. ‘I’ll have to do it myself.’

Location:
Corner of Bedford Place and Sillwood Street 

Transcript:
Her assertive driving and the incessant sirens forced cars onto pavements and into the side roads as Wendy pushed her way up the hill to the mosque. As they approached, the ferocity of the situation hit them. A sea of bodies blocked the road, clashing and charging at each other. Thrown punches, fleeing men, bins and rocks careering through the air snuffed out any thoughts of talking their way out of this one.
Wendy stopped the car as close as she could, resigned to the fact it would probably end up trashed. Not for the first time.
‘Ready?’ she said as she drew her baton.
‘You bet. Stay in sight,’ said Dan as he did likewise and, as one, they threw open their car doors and racked open their truncheons.
‘Let’s go,’ shouted Wendy as both sprinted towards the warring masses, yelling ‘police’ for what that was worth.
In the mêlée, Wendy broadly made out two groups. One consisted of white, fat, red-faced men, most with armfuls of tattoos and hate in their eyes. The other were darker-skinned, fitter men wearing traditional thobes and kofis.
She waded in, flailing her baton at any arm holding a weapon, fending off punches and kicks as she pushed through. She’d spun her head to see where Dan was, as much for his safety as hers, when she was jolted forward against a stationary car. Through the passenger window she could see a young woman, terror in her eyes, trying to placate two hysterical toddlers in the back.
Wendy shouted, above the din, ‘It’ll be OK,’ but knew the mum couldn’t hear – and even if she could, she’d know the promise was empty.
Suddenly she caught a glimpse of Dan, his hand gripped round a white man’s throat, propelling him back towards a shopfront opposite the mosque. He was about three metres away but might as well have been thirty, such was the impenetrable crowd between them.
Like a tidal swell, the crowd bulged in Dan’s direction lending Wendy a metre or two of space. At first she thought it was the start of a dispersal. Then, to her horror she saw it for what it was. Half a dozen white men had spotted Dan’s arrest attempt and were charging to their friend’s aid.
‘Dan! Behind you!’ she said, but her cries were swamped by the taunts and roar of the crowd. She strained to keep sight of her crew-mate and grabbed two men twice her size, flinging them out of her path, tears blurring her vision.
In seconds her worst fears were realised and she jabbed the red emergency button on her radio.
‘Charlie Romeo Zero One, officer down, multiple stab wounds. I need ambulance and back-up urgently. He’s bleeding out.’

Location:
Corner of Preston Street and Regency Square

Transcript:
The train was in Brighton, sliding over the outskirts of the town. Miss Gailey opened her apprehensive eyes. Hilda saw steep streets of houses that sprawled on the hilly mounds of the great town like ladders. This then, was Brighton. 
The quaint irregularities of the architecture, and the vastness of the thronged perspectives, made promises to her romantic sense. The town seemed to be endless as London. There were hotels, churches, chapels, libraries, and music-shops on every hand. The more ordinary features of main streets - the marts of jewellery, drapery, and tobacco - had an air of grandiose respectability; while the narrow alleys that curved enigmatically away between the lofty buildings of these fine thoroughfares beckoned darkly to the fancy. The multiplicity of beggars, louts, and organ-grinders was alone a proof of Brighton's success in the world; the organ-grinders, often a man and a woman yoked together, were extraordinarily English, genteel, and prosperous as they trudged in their neat, middle-class raiment through the gritty mud of the macadam, stolidly ignoring the menace of high-stepping horses and disdainful glittering wheels. Brighton was evidently a city apart.
Then the carriage rounded into King's Road, and suddenly she saw the incredible frontage of hotels, and pensions and apartments, and she saw the broad and boundless promenade alive with all its processions of pleasure, and she saw the ocean. And everything that she had seen up to that moment fell to the insignificance of a background. She understood.
'Of course, Sarah,' he said, as the carriage shortly afterwards turned up Preston Street, where the dying wind roughly caught them, 'we aren't beginning with anything as big as all that, so you needn't shiver in your shoes. You know what my notion is' - he included Hilda in his address - 'my notion is to get some experience first in a smaller house. We must pay for our experience, and my notion is to pay as little as possible. I can tell you there's quite a lot of things that have to be picked up before you've got the hang of a town like this - quite a lot.'

Location:
Regency Square 

Transcript:
In Lydia’s imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers. She saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them at present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp – its tents stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six officers at once.

Location:
Kings Road opposite Queensbury Mews


A misty blue sea
Strong and steady 
An almighty tree 
Whisks away the whistling wind
And brave blue waves 
Crash down on the glittering stones

The fast turbines, the salty sea
Oh how I wish to be
Swimming and swooshing all around
The shimmering blue, the electric sound
The mist makes them soon disappear
All alone on amber sweet sound 
Of silence

Afterschool Club - Windfarm Podcast/Raymond Briggs - The Snowman

Location:
Kings Road opposite the Brighton Grand

Transcript:
While Brighton slept—North Street, West Street, East Street, Western Road, Preston Street, Hove, the hotels, the shops, the restaurants, the movies, the baths, the booths, the churches, the Market, the Post Office, the pubs, the antiques, the second-hand books—slept and gleamed and climbed up from the sea under the dark blue dawn, the enormous gloomy man walked along the front, hardly visible in the darkness, seemingly the only wayfarer, the only one awake. And he looked out at the sea and wondered what he had to do. When he remembered he was about opposite the Grand. He remembered without any trouble, any strain. He had to kill Netta Longdon.

Location:
The Hippodrome

Transcript:
‘It’s a good bill,’ s aid Bob, opening his programme. ‘A juggler, a comedian, someone called Madame
Mitzi and her performing poodles. And Max Mephisto, of course.’
Behind Bob’s shoulder, Max and Ruby loomed out of a life-size poster. Magician and Daughter. Ruby
peeping out from behind a top-hatted Max, her eyes dancing.
A bell rang. ‘Come on,’ said Emma, ‘let’s go in.’
The complimentary seats were good ones, Row H of the stalls. The first seven rows were reserved
for exclusive chairs called ‘special fauteuils’. Emma was surprised how opulent the Hippodrome
looked from the inside: the domed ceiling, the ornate balconies, the swagged velvet stage curtains.
You hardly noticed that the seats were a little threadbare and that some of the gilt cherubs had lost
their noses.
‘My parents used to come here before the war,’ she told Bob. ‘They saw Max Miller and the Crazy
Gang.’
‘Variety isn’t what it used to be,’ said Bob solemnly. But, sitting in the theatre, listening to the
orchestra playing ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’, it didn’t seem that Variety was dead and buried just
yet. The audience were surprisingly elegant too, lots of jewellery and bow ties, swirls of velvet and
satin. You could imagine that you were back in pre-war days when people dressed for dinner and
tailcoats were not exclusively worn by musicians or waiters.
‘It’s starting,’ said Bob.’

Location:
The Old Ship Hotel 

Transcript:
Some ten days after the above ceremony, three young men of our acquaintance were enjoying that beautiful prospect of bow windows on the one side and blue sea on the other, which Brighton affords to the traveller. Sometimes it is towards the ocean - smiling with countless dimples, speckled with white sails, with a hundred bathing-machines kissing the skirt of his blue garment - that the Londoner looks enraptured: sometimes, on the contrary, a lover of human nature rather than of prospects of any kind, it is towards the bow windows that he turns, and that swarm of human life which they exhibit. From one issue the notes of a piano, which a young lady in ringlets practises six hours daily, to the delight of the fellow-lodgers: at another, lovely Polly, the nursemaid, may be seen dandling Master Omnium in her arms: whilst Jacob, his papa, is beheld eating prawns, and devouring the Times for breakfast, at the window below. Yonder are the Misses Leery, who are looking out for the young officers of the heavies, who are pretty sure to be pacing the cliff; or again it is a City man, with a nautical turn, and a telescope, the size of a six-pounder, who has his instrument pointed seawards, so as to command every pleasure-boat, herring-boat, or bathing-machine that comes to, or quits, the shore. But have we any leisure for a description of Brighton? - for Brighton, a clean Naples with genteel lazzarone - for Brighton, that always looks brisk, gay, and gaudy, like a harlequin's jacket.

Our young bride and bridegroom had chosen Brighton as the place where they would pass the first few days after their marriage. And having engaged apartments at the Ship Inn, enjoyed themselves there in great comfort and quietude, until Jos presently joined them. Nor was he the only companion they found here. As they were coming into the Hotel from a sea-side walk one afternoon, on whom should they light but Rebecca and her husband. The recognition was immediate. Rebecca flew into the arms of her dearest friend. Crawley and Osborne shook hands together cordially enough: and Becky, in the course of a very few hours, found means to make the latter forget that little unpleasant passage of words which had happened between them. "Do you remember the last time we met at Miss Crawley's, when I was so rude to you, dear Captain Osborne? I thought you seemed careless about dear Amelia. It was that made me angry: and so pert: and so unkind: and so ungrateful. Do forgive me!" Rebecca said, and she held out her hand with so frank and winning a grace, that Osborne could not but take it.

Location:
English's Restaurant, Market Street 

Transcript:
They walked the narrow Lanes he loved so much, passing packed restaurants and bars, and came into the square, Brighton Place, dominated by the flint façade of one of Brighton’s landmarks, the Sussex pub. English’s restaurant was directly across, with a long row of outside tables roped off, Mediterranean style. 
‘Inside or outside?’ the restaurant manager asked. 
‘I booked outside,’ Cleo said decisively, and glanced at Roy Grace for approval. He nodded enthusiastically. 
They were led down the line to the one table that was free. From long experience, Cleo indicated for Roy to take the chair with its back to the wall. ‘You take the policeman’s chair, darling.’ 
He squeezed her hand. After a few years in the force, most police officers only felt comfortable in restaurants and bars if they had their backs to the wall and a clear view of the room and the entry points. It had become second nature to him. 
They took their seats. Behind Cleo, an endless stream of people walked along the alley from Brighton’s trendy East Street into the Lanes. He picked up the leather-bound wine list and opened it. Just as he began casting his eye up and down, looking for the dry white wines he knew Cleo liked, and which he liked best, too, he suddenly saw two people he recognized. 
‘Bloody hell!’ He pulled the wine list up, covering his face, wanting to spare them the embarrassment of being spotted. Although the Machiavellian streak in him almost wanted them to see him. 
‘What is it?’ Cleo asked. 
He waited some moments, then lowered the list, and pointed at a couple, arm in arm, strolling away from them. ‘I thought they were coming in here!’ 
She stared at the couple. The man had a large bald patch, and was wearing a brown jacket and grey trousers. The woman had brown hair cut in a chic style, and wore a pretty pink dress. ‘Who are they?’ 
‘You’ve met them both, individually, at the mortuary over the years. DS Norman Potting and DS Bella Moy!’ 
‘And he’s been married – what – four times?’ 
‘Yup.’ 
Their waiter appeared. Grace ordered two glasses of champagne and some olives. 
‘That’s terrible.’ 
‘He is pretty terrible. But hey, good on Norman pulling Bella!’ 
‘Good on Norman pulling Bella?’ she quizzed. ‘What is it with you men? Why do men treat pulling women like a sport? What about, Poor Bella, lumbering herself, in desperation, with a serially unfaithful old lech?’ 
He laughed. ‘You’re right.’ 
‘So why do they, Roy?’ 
‘Because, I suppose, for most people, life’s a compromise. That writer – philosopher – you like, whose work you introduced me to a few months ago. What was his great line? Something about so many people living lives of quiet desperation?’ 
‘Yes. Don’t let us ever get like that, Roy.’ 
He stared back into her clear, green eyes. ‘We never will,’ he said.

Location:
Theatre Royal

Transcript:
‘The pillars and archways of the Theatre Royal were sparkling in the sun. It was a snug little venue,
somehow managing to be grand and welcoming at once. ‘Max Mephisto’ screamed the billboards.
Max pulled his hat down over his eyes and headed off to find the stage door. The last thing he
wanted was to be spotted looking admiringly at his own posters.
The stage door was in a side street. It was open and the narrow hallway full of boxes and trunks.
Max recognised his own stage kit and some boxes labelled AM. Who the hell was AM? He tried to
remember who was on the bill with him this week. A comedian, but then there were comedians
everywhere these days. A juggler that he last saw – pissed out of his head – try to get off with a
waxwork in Blackpool. Some girls, of course. After a while all the girls merge into one – feathers and
headdresses and lipsticked smiles. All except Ethel. She was different.
He saluted the commissionaire…and made his way towards the auditorium. He was slightly late and
knew he’d have to wait. Monday band calls operate on a strictly first-come-first-served basis. Max
might be top of the bill but, if he hadn’t got his music in front of the orchestra first, he’d be
condemned to a morning of listening to ‘The Chocolate Soldier’ played (fortissimo) by a gaggle of
amateur musicians.’

Location:
Clock Tower

Transcript:
Hale knew, before he had been in Brighton three hours, that they meant to murder him. With his inky fingers and his bitten nails, his manner cynical and nervous, anybody could tell he didn’t belong — belong to the early summer sun, the cool Whitsun wind off the sea, the holiday crowd. They came in by train from Victoria every five minutes, rocked down Queen’s Road standing on the tops of the little local trams, stepped off in bewildered multitudes into fresh and glittering air: the new silver paint sparkled on the piers, the cream houses ran away into the west like a pale Victorian watercolour; a race in miniature motors, a band playing, flower gardens in bloom below the front, an aeroplane advertising something for the health in pale vanishing clouds across the sky.

It had seemed quite easy to Hale to be lost in Brighton. Fifty thousand people besides himself were down for the day, and for quite a while he gave himself up to the good day, drinking gins and tonics wherever his programme allowed. For he had to stick closely to a programme: from ten till eleven Queen’s Road and Castle Square, from eleven till twelve the Aquarium and Palace Pier, twelve till one the front between the Old Ship and West Pier, back for lunch between one and two in any restaurant he chose round the Castle Square, and after that he had to make his way all down the parade to the West Pier and then to the station by the Hove streets. These were the limits of his absurd and widely advertised sentry-go.

Advertised on every Messenger poster: ‘Kolley Kibber in Brighton today.’ In his pocket he had a packet of cards to distribute in hidden places along his route; those who found them would receive ten shillings from the Messenger, but the big prize was reserved for whoever challenged Hale in the proper form of words and with a copy of the Messenger in his hand: ‘You are Mr Kolley Kibber. I claim the Daily Messenger prize.'”

Location:
Brighton Station 

Transcript:
Holly smiled at her again and the woman smiled back…She was still annoyed, though, with Mark for insisting on coming with her to the station and trying to keep her buoyant with jokes that she’d heard too often before.
He obviously thought his presence would be reassuring, but it had the opposite effect. His forced humour made it difficult for her to focus on staying calm. She knew she was being ungracious, but she couldn’t help it.
If he makes the Hastings-and-or-where? joke, Holly had thought to herself, as a disembodied voice began announcing the arrival of a train on platform seven, I might just hit him.
Holly usually tolerated Mark making the same jokes over and again. Every time she asked if they should go next door, meaning from the kitchen to the living room, and he answered ‘Hadn’t we better ask the neighbours if they mind?’ she would smile indulgently. Mark had no idea she actually found the joke extremely irritating.
Today she was having trouble masking this irritation.
‘The train on platform seven,’ said the announcer, ‘is the 8.58 service to Hastings, calling at…’
‘You don’t have to wait,’ Holly had said abruptly to Mark. ‘You’ll be late for work.’
‘Only a few minutes.’ He failed to pick up on the fact she didn’t want him there. ‘I’d rather be here.’
‘Bexhill-on-Sea, St Leonard’s Warrior Square…’ the announcer had been reeling out station names during their brief exchange ‘…Hasting and Ore.’
Ore, once a small village, was now a large suburb of Hastings.
‘And or where?’ said Mark, on cue and as expected.
‘I knew you were going to say that,’ Holly snapped.
‘Can’t teach an old dog new…’ he began but stopped, realising she was annoyed. ‘Sorry.’
‘What for?’ Holly scanned the departures board, hoping the London Victoria platform would appear and she could get away from him.
‘I don’t know.’ It was true, Mark obviously didn’t know but he was sorry anyway. That was typical of him, understanding, even when he didn’t quite understand. And he didn’t understand what she was feeling right now. Holly didn’t really understand herself. She just wanted to get on with things, the first one being boarding the train.

Location:
The British Heart Foundation shop, 20 London Road

Transcript:
He was still at his desk just after four in the afternoon when the doorbell rang. When he looked down from the first-floor window he saw a smart black Lexus with tinted window, parked illegally in the bus stop outside his house. 
The doorbell rang again. 
There was no entryphone, so he descended the narrow stairs to the front door next to the British Heart Foundation charity shop. When he opened it, a woman stood there. She was tall, with straight dirty blonde hair and had a Burberry messenger bag slung over one shoulder. She lowered her dark glasses and peered at him. 
‘Jacob Meaney?’ she said. ‘Yes.’
‘The Jacob Meany?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘That was a little rude,’ she said. ‘Putting the phone down on me.’
‘Did I?’ 
‘Mr Meaney,’ she said. ‘I have a proposal for you. One that I think you’re going to find very interesting.’ 
That night he slept badly, waking from strange dreams to wonder if he should have found out more about the job before committing himself to it. 
The next morning, Jacob woke before his alarm went off, shaved and dressed and stood at the window. 
At twenty to six in the morning, the black Lexus was on the street outside again, parked on the bus stop. Its windows were dark, making it impossible to see inside.

Location:
Brighton Museum
Transcript:
I’m sure you knew it was my first time in the place. I’d never found cause to step into Brighton Art Gallery and Museum before. Looking back, I’m astonished at myself. I’d just become a teacher at St Luke’s Infants’ School, and I’d never been to an art gallery.
When Tom and I pushed through the heavy glass-panelled doors, I thought how the place looked like nothing so much as a butcher’s shop. It was all the green tiles, not that Brighton swimming-pool green that’s almost turquoise and makes you feel sunny and light just looking at it, but a mossy, dense green. And the fancy mosaic floor, too, and the polished mahogany staircase, and the glinting cabinets of stuffed things. It was a secret world, all right. A man’s world, I thought, just like butchers’ shops. Women can visit, but behind the curtain, in the back where they do the chopping and sorting, it’s all men. Not that I minded that, at the time. But I wished I hadn’t worn that dress with the full skirt and kitten-heeled shoes – it was mid-December and the pavements were frosty, for one thing, and for another, I noticed that people didn’t dress for a museum. Most of the others were in brown serge or navy-blue wool, and the whole place was dark and serious and quiet. And there were my kitten heels, tapping inappropriately on the mosaic, echoing around the walls like scattered coins.

Location:
Pavillion Lawns

Transcript:
Less than a fortnight after Simon’s departure, plans were announced to transform the disused Royal Pavilion in Brighton into a hospital for Indian soldiers. Barbara was one of the sisters picked to work there, and she decided to take me with her. V.A.D.s were not wanted at the Indian hospital because all the manual work was done by Indian orderlies – the nurses were forbidden to touch the men – but Barbara thought my knowledge of Hindustani would come in useful.
The preparations were extraordinary. Every effort was made to respect the different religious observances: there were separate water taps, separate cooking facilities, even separate operating theatres and orderlies for Hindus and Muslims. Hindu and Sikh temples were set up in tents in the grounds and arrangements were made for Muslims to be taken to worship at the mosque in Woking. The floors were covered in linoleum and rows of white-sheeted beds and screens created a hospital environment at ground level, while, above, the painted domes, palm tree pillars and magnificent chandeliers that gave the former royal palace its oriental feel remained. For men recovering consciousness, it was disorientating to find themselves in what seemed like an Eastern paradise, and they sometimes had to be reassured that they were not dead or hallucinating. But, for me, it was like coming home…
As soon as the hospital opened, the ladies of the town descended bearing flowers, fruit and other gifts. The soldiers were invited home for tea, or taken for rides along the seafront. For most of them hospital was not a depressing place. They had spent the autumn and the first part of winter digging trenches in the pouring rain, whilst standing knee-deep in water; many had lost toes to frostbite and, to make matters worse, their winter uniforms had never arrived so they were still in their tropical unforms, and would continue to be there until the following spring. So to be in a warm, comfortable environment, with all their needs supplied, playing cards and dice, or standing on the balconies waving at people passing on the trams, who waved back, was an enjoyable experience.
But their enjoyment was short-lived. By December, all the English nurses had been removed, all visitors banned and patients were no longer allowed to leave the premises. The fences were heightened and barbed wire put along the top. It was felt that the Indian soldiers were becoming too friendly with the local women, and that this familiarity might negatively influence their behaviour towards Englishwomen when they were back in India. Despite protests that the patients felt imprisoned, and appeals that it was bad for their morale, the military authorities stood firm. By the end of 1915 the India hospitals were closed down and the treatment of Indians shifted to France.

Umi Sinha - Belonging / Raymond Briggs - The Snowman

Location:
Old Steine Gardens

Transcript:
What is a lodging-house at Brighton but an uncertain maintenance? On one day they come in shoals, it is true, but where are they on the next?
In Steyne Gardens, the lodging-houses are among the most frequented in that city of lodging-houses. These mansions have bow-windows in front, bulging out with gentle prominences, and ornamented with neat verandahs, from which you can behold the tide of humankind as it flows up and down the Steyne, and that blue ocean stretching brightly away eastward and westward. The chain-pier, as everybody knows, runs intrepidly into the sea, which sometimes, in fine weather, bathes its feet with laughing wavelets, and anon, on stormy days, dashes over its sides with roaring foam. Here, for the sum of twopence, you can go out to sea and pace this vast deck without need of a steward with a basin. You can watch the sun setting in splendour over Worthing, or illuminating with its rising glories the ups and downs of Rottingdean. You see the citizen with his family inveigled into the shallops of the mercenary native mariner, and fancy that the motion cannot be pleasant. You behold a hundred bathing-machines put to sea; and your naughty fancy depicts the beauties splashing under their white awnings.
Along the rippled sands (stay, are they rippled sands or shingly beach?) the prawn-boy seeks the delicious material of your breakfast. In yon vessels now nearing the shore the sleepless mariner has ventured forth to seize the delicate whiting, the greedy and foolish mackerel, and the homely sole. Hark to the twanging horn! it is the early coach going out to London. Your eye follows it, and rests on the pinnacles built by the beloved GEORGE. See the worn-out London roué pacing the pier, inhaling the sea air, and casting furtive glances under the bonnets of the pretty girls who trot here before lessons! Mark the bilious lawyer, escaped for a day from Pump Court, and sniffing the fresh breezes before he goes back to breakfast and a bag full of briefs at the Albion! See that pretty string of prattling schoolgirls! See Tomkins with a telescope and marine jacket; young Nathan and young Abrams, already bedizened in jewellery, and rivalling the sun in oriental splendour; yonder poor invalid crawling along in her chair; yonder jolly fat lady examining the Brighton pebbles (I actually once saw a lady buy one), and her children wondering at the sticking-plaster portraits with gold hair and gold stocks, and prodigious high-heeled boots, miracles of art, and cheap at seven-and-sixpence!

Location:
Van Alen Building, Marine Parade

Transcript:
An hour later he was reversing his silver BMW X5 into his underground parking slot in the Van Alen building. He took the lift up to the fourth floor, and let himself into his apartment.
It had been a financial stretch to buy this place, but it took him a step up in the world. An imposing, modern Deco-style building on Brighton seafront, with a bunch of celebrities among the residents. The place had class. If you lived in the Van Alen you were a somebody. If you were a somebody, that meant you were rich. All his life, Mark had had just that one goal – to be rich.
The voicemail light was winking away on the phone as he walked through to the large open-plan living area. He decided to ignore it for a moment as he dumped his briefcase, plugged his mobile into the charger, then went straight to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a couple of fingers of Balvenie whisky. Then he walked over to the window, stared down at the promenade below, still buzzing with people despite the weather and the hour. Beyond that he could see the bright lights of the Palace Pier and the inky darkness of the sea.
All of a sudden his mobile beeped sharply at him. A message. He stepped over and looked at the display. Shit. Fourteen new messages!
Keeping it connected to the charger, he dialled his voicemail box. The first message was from Pete, at 7 p.m., asking where he was. The second was from Robbo at 7.45, helpfully telling him they were moving on to another pub, the Lamb at Ripe. The third was at 8.30 from a very drunken-sounding Luke and Josh, with Robbo in the background. They were moving on from the Lamb to a pub called the  Dragon, on the Uckfield Road.
The next two messages were from the estate agent concerning the deal in Leeds, and from their corporate lawyer.
The sixth was at 11.05 from a very distressed-sounding Ashley. Her tone startled him. Ashley was normally calm, unflappable.
‘Mark, please, please, please call me as soon as you get this,’ she urged in her soft, distinctive North American accent.
He hesitated, then listened to the next message. It was from Ashley again. Panicky now. And the next, and the next one after that, each at ten-minute intervals. The tenth message was from Michael’s mother. She also sounded distraught.
‘Mark, I left a message on your home phone too. Please call me as soon as you get this, doesn’t matter what time.’
Mark paused at the machine. What the hell had happened?
The next call had been Ashley again. She sounded close to hysterics. ‘Mark, there’s been a terrible accident. Pete, Robbo and Luke are dead. Josh is on life support in Intensive Care. No-one knows where Michael is. Oh God, Mark, please call me just as soon as you get this.’

Location:
Marine Parade to Medeira Drive steps 

Transcript:
There are these little nooks in Brighton, places that most people don’t know about where you can meet up and no one will see you. Technically, it shouldn’t be an issue, me meeting up with these people, but right now, everything is a potential problem, everything could be seen, pounced upon and dissected in a way that will reveal things that really do need to be kept hidden. 
Along from the Pier, in the opposite direction to Hove and Worthing, there are several of these nook-type places that feel secluded and safe. 
One of my business partners, Hollie, has lived in Brighton and Hove her whole life and it was she who suggested we meet here. You can only really access this area from the street – you have to walk along the road from the Pier and the Aquarium, then after a few hundred metres, you take the steep, sheer stone steps to get down onto the pebbles. 
Further back, on the other side of the Pier, this area under the steps has been claimed by shops, playground areas and other community spaces; here that has not happened. Here it is bleak; litter has built up and seagulls often gather to feast on it. The pebbles are especially bumpy underfoot and I feel completely ridiculous standing here in my running gear, waiting for the others to arrive.

Dorothy Koomson - I Know What You’ve Done

Location:
Madeira Drive, Volks Crossing below Lanes Hotel

Transcript:
Against the white cliffs, the girl in the red dress was as vivid as a drop of blood. Even by moonlight, the rugged shoreline was visible for miles at sea: two vast cave mouths yawned, black stains scarring the chalk. The tide was coming in, advancing on a dark, rocky beach; the surf sighed over the shingle as the waves crept closer. 
The girl knew the cliffs like old friends. She’d lived in Telscombe Cliffs her whole life. This was backwards though; usually she looked up at the cliffs from the beach, not down on them from the top. They seemed bigger from up here; the pebble beach was a long way below. It was dizzying. Vertigo played tricks with her eyes, so that they focused then unfocused like a wild camera lens. The tips of her shoes were level with the edge of the cliff. All it would take was one step forwards. One step and it’d be over.

Location:
Madeira Drive, Steve Ovett statue 

Transcript:
The drummers lead the way. They march past the shops and cafes. Rat-a-tat tat! Rat-a-tat tat! They march past the theatre. Rat-a-tat tat! Rat-a-tat tat! They march past the town hall and down to the seafront. They march past the big hotels and the beach huts and the boats. They march past the pier. They march down to the beach. And that’s where they stop.
Up above them, Class One can see their mums and their dads and their carers, their brothers and sisters, their aunties and uncles and cousins, their grannie and grandads, their friends and their neighbours, all watching and waving. 
The lights are taken out of the lanterns and they’re passed along and piled up by the grown-ups into a huge lantern mountain.
There’s a big countdown. Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One!
The lantern mountain is set alight. In a flash it becomes a roaring bonfire. Flames leap into the dark. Fireworks fill the sky. WHIZZZ! BANG! FIZZZ!
Class One cheer and shout with all the other children. HOORAY FOR THE SHORTEST DAY!

Location:
Palace Pier entrance

Transcript:
‘Why have you stopped?’ she asks. ‘Can you kiss me again, please?’
‘You’ve got to catch me first.’ 
I start to run, and Kerry runs with me, grabbing hold of the ridiculous garland I’ve wrapped around my waist. We head for the seafront, as Brighton kids always do. On the beach, a group of swimmers gather at the shoreline, ready for the annual Christmas dip.
‘Fancy it?’ I ask her.
Kerry shakes her head. ‘No way. But . . .’ she looks towards Palace Pier and nods.
‘It’s closed on Christmas Day.’
‘Even better.’ She runs past the shuttered hot dog stands and candy floss kiosks, towards the barricades. As I watch, she darts to the right-hand side. And now she’s gone.
I walk towards the gates.
‘Come on, you can sneak in through here . . .’ She puts out her hand and helps me clamber through the narrow gap and over the roof of a candy floss stall. I’ve never seen the pier completely empty before and she starts to dance up and down the empty boards. I chase her, lasso her with Mum’s berry garland, and throw my arms around her. I kiss her with the sea smooth and green-grey between the planks under our feet. In the distance, the capped heads of the mad swimmers bob like balls.
I pour champagne into plastic flutes. We drink it looking out towards Shoreham, and beyond that to the edge of the world. We are young, we can do anything, go anywhere. We’ve made mistakes. No, I’ve made mistakes, but I don’t have to be punished for those forever.
‘Kiss me again, please,’ she asks.
I turn her face towards me and this time it’s a Hollywood kiss, tender and slow, one that justifies the changes it’s going to set in motion.
‘I should go,’ she says.
‘Tomorrow, we start again.’
She flinches, as though she’s already playing out the scene in her mind. ‘It’ll be messy to pull apart, after all this time. I’ve been with Tim for . . . three quarters of my life, if you count how long we’ve been friends . . .’
‘It’ll be messier the longer you leave it.’
‘You’re right.’ She takes my hand and we walk back to the pier turnstiles. She clambers back over the roof of the stall, and holds out her hand to help me through the gap. We’re going back to real life, but only for another twenty-four hours.
We kiss one last time, leaning against the turquoise railings, then I watch her walk away.
Our happy ever after is in sight.

Eva Carter - How To Save a Life (extract 2)

Location:
Palace Pier, half-way down 

Transcript:
I stared up at my postcard from Brighton I’d stuck up on the ceiling. I’d got the postcard when I was in sixth form and had gone to Brighton on a protest march. I’d been wide-eyed at the water being so close to the city, and I’d decided I wanted to live there one day. But then it was college and then it was Masters then it was work then it was Heath and then it was Sidney. No Brighton.
When I moved back into my flat after I left Heath this time, I’d stuck the postcard on my ceiling to remind myself every morning of the Brighton dream. It had the pebble beach, two deckchairs facing the water, the Palace Pier in the background. It was tatty and worn around the edges, the vibrant colours had faded, but looking at it always evoked a feeling inside. A yearning. A longing to be by the sea.

Little Green Pig

26 ECHOES

DOWNLOAD OUR APP TO DISCOVER THIS TOUR AND MANY OTHERS.

The Echoes

Peter James - You Are Dead

Dorothy Koomson - All My Lies Are True

Sue Teddern - The Pre-Loved Club

Eva Carter - How To Save a Life (extract 1)

Dorothy Koomson - Tell Me Your Secret

Discover more geolocated content in our apps.

Are you a creator?

Get in touch

Echoes creative apps

Echoes labs

About us

Little Green Pig

room 26 ECHOES

DOWNLOAD OUR APP TO DISCOVER THIS TOUR AND MANY OTHERS.

The Echoes

Peter James - You Are Dead

Dorothy Koomson - All My Lies Are True

Sue Teddern - The Pre-Loved Club

Eva Carter - How To Save a Life (extract 1)

Dorothy Koomson - Tell Me Your Secret

Discover more geolocated content in our apps.

Are you a creator?

Get in touch

Echoes creative apps

Echoes labs

About us

26 ECHOES