10. Brighton Grand 

PATRICK HAMILTON – HANGOVER SQUARE

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.

11. The Hippodrome

ELLY GRIFFITHS – THE VANISHING BOX

‘It’s a good bill,’ said 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.’

12. Old Ship Hotel

WILLIAM THACKERAY – VANITY FAIR

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. 

13. English's Restaurant

PETER JAMES – DEAD MAN’S TIME

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. 

14. Theatre Royal

ELLY GRIFFITHS – THE ZIG ZAG GIRL 

‘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.’

15. Clock Tower

GRAHAM GREENE – BRIGHTON ROCK

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.'”

16. Brighton Station

LIZZIE ENFIELD – UNCOUPLED

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.

17. British Heart Foundation shop, London Road

WILLIAM SHAW – THE CONSPIRATORS

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. 

18. Brighton Museum and Art Gallery

BETHAN ROBERTS – MY POLICEMAN

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.

19. Pavilion

UMI SINHA – BELONGING

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 uniforms, 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.

19a. Pavilion 

RAYMOND BRIGGS – THE SNOWMAN