Director's Cut (12 page)

Roger said impatiently, “Get back to the point. What’s your
favourite film?”

“OK then”, the colonel said. “I liked
Ice Cold In Alex
with John
Mills.”

Albert was sheepish. Finally he admitted, “All right, all right
. Fun
in Acapulco
.”

Everyone took a step back from Albert and waited for clarification.
Albert sucked on his thin lips and, although there was nothing
remotely Gallic about him, shrugged a Gallic shrug, playing for time
and all the time wondering if he’d made a terrible mistake.
“Well,” he said nervously, “He was a nice lad.”

Unfortunately this explanation, when all was said and done, made
things much worse. Roger wandered away to the other end of his long
bar, the colonel bristled with indignation and Mr Lawrence wondered
who the nice lad was but one thing was certain, Albert was left quite
alone.

He was out when Mr Lawrence got in. The following morning he was
running in the electric cable. The electricity distribution box in the stair
recess was open and a coil of black cable snaked out towards the shop.
It was a worrying sight and Mr Lawrence was rightly worried. He
reached the door when an almighty crash had him ducking for cover
and for a moment he wondered if one of the colonel’s krauts had
followed him home and lobbed a hand-grenade. The shop lights went
out without a flicker and Paul yelped and a bronze ballerina in the shop
window pirouetted off her stand.

“It's arced!” Paul screamed. “It's arced!” He vaulted from the recess
and crashed into the wall opposite and, as he slid slowly southward,
smiled sweetly at Mr Lawrence.

Mr Lawrence thought back to the conversation in The British and
wondered whether the double-glazing salesman’s electric shock
treatment might help.

Nervous Sid was in The British, Sid the Nerve, playing the devil's
drum on the bottom rung of his bar stool. He worried that the DSS or
whatever they were called nowadays had cancelled his weekly benefit.
How would they like to be black with a little receiving form? It was all
right for them with their index-related pay, but what about him? They
treated illegal immigrants better than they treated him.

Nervous Sid turned to children; they were on his mind. The ASBOs
were a complete waste of time and money; they had become a badge of
honour. The kids actually felt out of it if they didn’t own one. Nervous
Sid agreed with the colonel. The answer to their worrying ways was a
sharp stab in the arse with a bayonet and then three years in a detention
centre fed on nothing but green veg, sprouts if possible. No orange
squash or trips out to holiday centres.

Children – they seemed wiser, more mature, less child-like. The
boys were ill-natured, rude little gits and the girls had contemptuous,
knowing eyes. Even twelve-year-olds knew what made the world go
around. They looked as though they were waiting to get a little bigger
so they could pay you back. A frightening thought, the thought of
growing old and defenceless, and the only thing to do, he supposed,
was to get them first, before they grew up. Devastating, really. It was
all these fucking chemicals in the crops. All these E-numbers the
colonel and Albert kept going on about. They were modifying the kids
and not in a good way. Sod these GM crops. Sid the Nerve would take
more notice in future. He made a mental note that if ever his luck
changed and his number came in, he wouldn’t buy a motor car from
those bastards.

He went on to explain that when he threw stones at a group of them
who were climbing on his garage roof they threw them back again.
And they were better shots. He lifted the plaster on his cheek to show
Mr Lawrence the damage. They were aiming at his eye, he said,
because he was black. They were still on his garage roof. He'd made a
speedy retreat. The long way round. Sod that for a living.
Then he said, “Is that Paul still with you?”

“Yes, I suppose that Paul is. Although, technically, he's in hospital
at the moment.”

“Kids?”

“No. Electricity.”

“Oh.” He sipped his shaking pint, spilling a little down his chin. His
foot-tapping quickened in tempo.

Mr Lawrence prompted, “Why do you ask?”

Nervous Sid's attention returned from parts of the barmaid.
“Someone was asking about him. A very dodgy looking character.
Fact is, dodgy isn't the word. Not really. Not at all. Dangerous is
probably closer. Fucking dangerous closer still. A big bad bastard.”
“My goodness. What did he want?”

“He said he wanted Paul.”

“Did he say what for?”

“No, he didn't say and I didn't ask. You don't prolong the

conversation with people like that. I wanted out. Like…out. As soon
as poss. Registered mail. Know what I mean?”

“Did you tell him he was staying with me?”

“Of course not. What do you take me for?” Sid the Nerve shook out
the words, saddened by the suggestion.

On his way to the door Mr Lawrence passed Albert and the colonel
and Rasher who stood studying the tearaway nuts between the bottles.
“Mr Lawrence, a moment of your time,” Albert muttered. “For
young Paul someone's been looking. An unsuitable type. With more
care you should choose his friends.”

“Did you tell this character that Paul was staying with me?”
Albert's eyes glinted and his half-hidden lips widened. “Of course.”
“That's kind of you, Albert.”

Mr Lawrence left The British early to visit Paul at the hospital. He
didn't mind making the odd sacrifice. He picked up a brown paper bag
of grapes from a Pakistani shop that opened all night, every night, even
Christmas night. He had Christmas lights in his window next to a
photograph of Mecca.

Green seedless grapes, brown-bagged, cheaper than Tesco and
guaranteed by the foreign gentleman not to contain the fungicide
Vinclozolin.

The Salvation Army were playing near the hospital entrance, belting
out Jerusalem, and a few patients who could walk or manoeuvre their
wheelchairs had gathered to listen. Sensing danger, Mr Lawrence
hurried past the uniformed women who were brandishing their
collection boxes and
War Cries
.

Paul sat up straight in his bed, a lonely figure, his gaze haunted,
focussed on the hills that his feet and knotted knees made on the
blanket. Under the wash of the bright strip he looked pale. Patients in
the other beds were involved with their visitors. Paul was in another
place. Not in this world.

“How are you?”

His eyes came back slowly. They slid towards Mr Lawrence.
Nothing else on his body moved. It took a few moments for
recognition and then he smiled and turned and caught up with his eyes.
“Mr Lawrence.”

“How are you?”

“Mr Lawrence?”

“You're looking better.”

“Mr Lawrence, what are you doing here?”

“I brought you some grapes. I should have posted them.”
“You shouldn't have.”

“You're right. The postman might have squashed them.”
“You shouldn't have bothered coming.”

“You're right again. How are you?”

“I'm fine. Just fine. They're keeping me in overnight. I'll be out
tomorrow. It's the heart, irregular or something. The shock, I expect.”
“I expect it was.”

“Funny that. They use electric shocks to start a stopped heart and
they use a pacemaker to keep a heart ticking over yet electricity sent
mine the other way. Funny.”

“Yes, I see what you mean. But changing the subject for just a
moment, someone's been asking about you.”

He frowned.

“A big chap. A big…chap.”

Paul sighed and shook his head. “You didn't tell him I was staying
with you?”

“No. No I didn't and nor did Sid.”

He relaxed.

“Albert did.”

He grimaced. “Everything's going wrong,” he said. “Stuck in here
innI? Haven't got time to find a place. Christmas's coming, you want
me out by the weekend and now that bastard's looking for me.”
“Who is that bastard exactly?”

“Someone I lived with.”

“My goodness, come again, exactly what does that mean?”
“Inside, Mr Lawrence. Prison overcrowding, innit? You don't get a
cell to yourself. Not unless you write books or something. I knew him
inside, see. Shared a cell.”

“And now he's outside. Is he dangerous?”

Paul shrugged white bony shoulders.

“Why is he looking for you?”

Paul looked up appealingly and said meekly, “He's in love with
me.”

“Love!”

“He thinks he is. He probably is.”

“Love! Goodness me, now that's a complication I hadn't considered.
Do you love him?”

Paul pulled a face. “Leave it out, Mr Lawrence. Do I look like a
rear admiral?”

“I can't answer that, dear boy. I wouldn't know what to look for. I
have often wondered how you tell.”

“I think it’s an earring in the left ear, or it might be the right.”
“I shall look out for that.”

“Or it might even be both ears.”

“Forget the ears, Paul.”

“He forced himself on me. Inside, you don't have a choice. You
stick your arse in the air or you get beaten senseless and your arse goes
in the air anyway.”

“That’s terrible but that's all right then. Now I know that, you can
stay until Christmas, Boxing Day I mean. No longer and, only if you
make yourself useful in the shop.”

His face softened in gratitude. “I won't be no trouble. Honest. I'll
teach you to play chess. I'll do the cooking. I'll look after the shop. I'll
get us a Christmas tree with lights.”

Mr Lawrence shook his head in wonder. Today’s youth! Who’d
have them with their erratic enthusiasm and marvellous ambitions?
“Chess. I'll settle for chess.”

“I'm a master at that, innI? The old Reti, the old King's Indian.
Sound as a bell, that, that is. You saved me a lot of worry.”
“Worry?”

“I was thinking about the turkey in the squat. They keep turning the
electric off, see?”

“Well, I hope my electric is back on by then.”

“No sweat, Mr Lawrence. I've got this mate…”

“No, Paul. NO. I'll use the Yellow Pages.”

“Right.”

“But what about this rampaging lover?”

“Come again?”

“The bastard?”

“Yeah. He could be a problem.”

“You'll have to break it gently.”

“Yeah.”

“That his affections are not returned. It’s a sad business when love
is not returned.”

“Sad, yeah, that’s it.”

A nurse walked through, stern and alarming. She paused at the end
of Paul’s bed and glared at the two of them. Mr Lawrence busied
himself with the grapes, slipped one in his mouth and stuck it in his
cheek. The nurse shook her head and went on her way. Mr Lawrence
watched her go. There was something about women and uniforms.
There always had been, he supposed, ever since Boudicca had been
riveted into her breastplates.

By the time Mr Lawrence left the hospital the Sally Annes had
changed their tune. They had moved on to While Shepherds Watched
but the women, striding about flat-footed, were thrusting their
War
Cries
and collection boxes with even more aggression. To get back to
the bus stop and to avoid the women Mr Lawrence was forced into a
detour around the block.

Lunchtime the following day there was bad news to come in The
British. Rasher had given the road outside a crimson glow. The tarmac
had been washed in claret.

Bad news like that was enough to turn a man to drink but the
woman was coming later so that would have to wait.

Rasher was a casualty of the night.

It happened last night, shortly after Mr Lawrence had left.
Behind the bar, between the ranks of down-turned bottles riding on
their 25ml measures – seventy proof rotors – the packets of tearaway
peanuts waited to be plucked from their card. Beneath the nuts was a
photograph of a naked lady and every time a packet was pulled a little
more of her was exposed. So far on view there was one perfectly formed
breast with a sixpenny nipple and three-quarters of a thigh. Next to the nuts
was a calendar used to note the up-and-coming darts tournaments and
December’s photograph was of a bullfight in Spain. The nuts and the
calendar hung directly opposite Rasher's usual position at the bar. And
when Mr Lawrence left him the night before, there he was studying the girl,
perhaps remembering his wife, then blinking at the bullfight, and then he gave
his minders the slip and went bullfighting on the main road. And the
bull got him.

His minders were now in mourning.

The bull, a silver 306 turbo-charged diesel Peugeot, driven by a
social worker, had hit him and dragged him fifty yards along the steel
railings.

Albert was a late arrival that lunchtime. He arrived only moments
before Mr Lawrence. His stoop was more apparent, his shoulders rounder. He'd
spent a large part of the night searching the road for the gold that had flown
from Rasher's broken body. Albert was a prospector. He'd found a finger, he
told them, but it was the little finger, the only one of Rasher's fingers that
didn’t sparkle. Sod's law, really.

“We'll have to tighten security,” the colonel said seriously. “They
got to him. She got to him. Lured him on to the rocks, or rather, into
the road. Beware of the women's sweet song.”

Mr Lawrence interrupted. “She left him.”

“Exactly!” The colonel refused to see the point. “She left
him knowing that he would be destroyed. My God, how I hate women. They never
fight a single battle face-to-face, bayonet-to-bayonet. They come at you in
the night, in the dark, in the back. Listen to an old soldier. Stay away from
them. Just like the wops, really. Women and wops have a lot in common.” To a
young woman in a hugging black dress behind the bar he shouted, “You there,
you with the Polish accent, another drink if you please." And while she poured
it he kept his eyes open for the possibility of poison. He turned as Mr Lawrence
put on his hat. “Are you off, then? Is it that time already?”

“Yes, it is. I have an early sitting.”