He hadn’t needed a lot of convincing. It was a good opportunity to find out more about Jack Regent. The coast road was now alive with packs of Mods, who revved and rode their scooters, three or four astride, straddling the lanes and stopping normal traffic. A gang of Rockers tore past in the opposite direction as Triumphs, BSAs, Nortons and Royal Enfields gunned their heavy engines and burned up the tarmac. In their brief passing, insults were thrown either way. The ever-present sound of sirens just behind them reminded these opposing forces who held the real power in the town tonight – even though it was a tenuous hold. On the main drag running from Marine Parade to the West Pier, packs of Mods promenaded and peacocked: sleek, sharp à la mode urbanites with their faces alert, glowing and glowering, searching for the enemy. That meant anyone in leathers and with greased-backed hair, who they viewed as rural, uncouth, dated and definitely not them. While for them the weekend was about hitting the dance halls, popping pills, putting on a performance, having a tear-up, making the newspapers and getting your picture taken.
