Director's Cut (20 page)

“You always were a selfish cunt, Breath. You probably got Scottish
ancestors like that fucker Brown.” Ticker grinned. “Only kidding.
Even you ain't that tight! Come on, let's go and look at some other
paintings.”

“I'm with you, Boss. Always have been, you know that. But I hope
it's scenery, like trees or wild animals, tigers or ducks. Ducks is good. I
ain't into all these acres of skin. Puts a shiver up my arse. Brings back
memories of when I didn't have to pay for it.”

“We all pay for it, Breath, one way or the other. We all fucking
pay.”

“Ain't that the fucking truth?”

Breathless looked at the painting of red bricks and said, “See what I
mean, Boss? That’s a bunch of fucking building bricks, right, and the
bastard’s put a grand tab on it. Now what the fuck is the world coming
to?”

The heavy old-fashioned blade of the guillotine came down and left
Lawrence's index finger on the table. The three men stared at it for
some moments. It moved. Some little nerve ends were left alive, or a
tendon flicked back like a piece of elastic. Breathless Billy let go of the
handle of the guillotine and took a pace back and said, “Fuck that!”
But Ticker Harrison had moved his gaze to Lawrence’s face. The
old bastard had felt no pain, he was sure of it. He was simply staring
impassively at his finger.

Ticker said, “If you don't talk to me, sunshine, then you're going to
end up with no fingers at all. That ain't actually going to improve your
painting, is it? Now I'm a fucking art lover and I hate to do this, but
one way or the other, you're going to fucking talk to me.”
“If we could negotiate.”

“Negotiate? Where the fuck are you coming from? Negotiate? You
ain't actually holding a very good hand at the moment.”

Breathless chuckled. “That's good, Boss. That's fucking funny.”
“Breath, that wasn't a fucking joke.”

“It sounded like a joke. It was funny enough to be a joke.”
“The cunt wants to negotiate. He thinks I'm a fucking Arab or
something. Al fucking Fayed. He's losing his fucking fingers and he
wants to negotiate. What sort of fucking world are we living in? Forget
the fucking finger. Take off his fucking arm!”

Lawrence said calmly, “I was merely going to say that I'm bleeding
rather badly. If I could have some tissue to stem the blood, then I'll be
quite willing to tell you whatever you want to know. It was never a
secret anyway. You didn't have to do this.”

Ticker seemed upset. “You should have fucking said.”

“You never gave me a chance.”

“Breath, for Christ's sake find some fucking tissues.”

“Got one here, Boss, in my pocket somewhere. But it's been used.”
So Ticker Harrison discovered that his wife had a lover and was
enjoying a romantic liaison in Spain – winter sun, Thompson,
something like that – and she was going to phone Lawrence once she
returned home, but that was still some days away. He had, during their
sessions, become her confidant.

In the car Ticker Harrison kept shaking his head. He was stunned.
Uncertainty had been nudged aside by anger. For the first time since
Helen had gone missing, he was in charge again. Now he was working
on how to pay her back for causing him such grief. He'd take her lover
apart, no doubt about that, and to teach her a lesson he'd probably
make her watch. What he was going to do to her he hadn't quite
decided but one thing was certain, Helen Harrison wasn't going to
enjoy it.

“You OK, Boss?” Breathless asked. He was still shaken by the old
guy's detachment. There had been no scream or shout or cry. No
reaction that you usually got. Fact was, Breathless Billy had noticed a
smile on Lawrence's face as his finger came off. Now that was fucking
scary.

“I'm fine, Breathless. I need to get my head around it, though. I
can't understand how a fucking woman could leave me, that's all.”
“I can understand that.”

“What the fuck’s that suppose to mean?”

“I didn’t mean…the fucking women leaving you. I meant I could
understand how you feel about it.”

“They call that empathy.”

“Do they? Fuck me. What’s that mean exactly, Boss?”

“It means that you’re a soft bastard.”

Breathless Billy pulled a downcast face.

Ticker went on, “Some time alone. A little bit of space is what I
need. Going to play the old Matt Monro records. Maybe some Dean
Martin. My old man used to know him, you know? When he was on
the buses.”

“I never knew Dean Martin was on the buses.”

“No, Matt Monro was on the buses. Dean Martin was with Jerry
Lewis.”

“Right, I remember the movies now. Great fucking movies they
were. Black and white. Can't remember the titles though but, Dean, he
was all right.”

“
Little Old Wine Drinker Me
, remember that?”

“Do I.”

“One of my favourites.”

“And
Rio Bravo
, remember that, Boss?”

“Fucking remember it! When I was a kid I knew every fucking
word. John T Chance. Angie fucking Dickinson, and she was a good
looking tart in those days.”

“Were you a John Wayne fan, Boss?”

“Yeah, still am, but don't spread it around.”

“I won't say nothing.”

Ticker nodded. “Now, like I said, I need some space to get my head
around this shite, so I'm going to leave Avenue Road to you. Get some
people together and get over there. I think we've had enough fucking
blood for one day, don't you? So just give them a scare, right?”
“I get it. I know where you're coming from. I'll do that. Not a
fucking problem. You can leave it to me. And Boss, I know this has hit
you hard, I know that. For fuck's sake, I want you to know that if you
need someone to talk to, like, fucking, a fucking shoulder to cry on or
something, I'm always here for you.”

“I know that, Breath, and I'm fucking grateful. Maybe you should
have been a fucking social worker. But right now I want to sit in my
bathroom. Is that all right with you?”

The big guy nodded and reached for a tissue to blow his nose, then
remembered he’d left it changing colour on what was left of the old
guy’s finger, which wasn’t very much.

The Gallery had been filled with police officers, some of them in white
overalls and calling themselves SOCOs. They carried the tools of their
trade – ground-penetrating radar handsets, Hoovers and copies of the
town planner's drawings. There were also a couple of springer spaniels
straining on leashes. Paul heard some of their handler’s conversation
but it didn’t make much sense to him. They were talking about how
these dogs were different to your average police sniffer dog, how they
could detect the scent of human remains through concrete. They were
going on about something called NPIA and scientific training
techniques and then, later, that the dogs couldn’t work in the stink in
the cellar and that they had got over-excited by the dead rodents, the
decomposing cats and rats. One of them suggested that they bring in
the local authorities, that there must be a law against dead cats in a
cellar. That was just before they sent out for some breathing apparatus.
To Paul the coppers looked more like dentists than policemen and
perhaps that was why he was so unsettled.

The search was completed long before Mr Lawrence arrived home.
Paul was waiting for him by the stairs. Still spook-eyed and trembling
it was clear he needed the gentle touch. He blurted, “What was it, Mr
Lawrence?”

“A mistake, dear boy. They were on about missing women and
stolen property.”

Paul's eyes grew even wider, ready to pop. Mr Lawrence’s
explanation had not done the trick and he pointed an idiot’s finger up
the empty stairs. “They went in to my room.”

“Is your gear stolen?”

“Well…”

“My goodness. Well, obviously they weren't interested in it. I think
it was more likely artwork that they were after.”

“Like the ballerinas?”

“Did they take them?” Mr Lawrence turned to check but there they
were, still dancing. “Did they take anything at all? Did you make sure
they signed for whatever they took?”

“Just your books. That’s all they took, apart from little plastic bags
of things they picked up with tweezers and things. And they used
Hoovers too, small Hoovers. They used them in every corner and on
every surface and on some clothes. There were kozzers everywhere,
upstairs, my room as well. They even unscrewed our bathroom cabinet.
Why would they do that? And they took the cistern to pieces. They
spent ages in the cellar, with their tape measures. And in the studio.
They looked at everything, even the floorboards. They looked behind
all the pictures. I thought they'd never go. It was humiliating, Mr
Lawrence.”

“Yes, I’m sure it was. They think we've got a hidden stash of
artwork. Someone's put them up to it, no doubt. Probably someone
from The British. Probably Albert. There is something odd about
Albert. I know he’s Jewish, but there is something else beside.”
“I'm worried, Mr Lawrence. Kozzers worry me even when I ain't
done nothing. And I’ve always done something.”

“No need to be. They have nothing to go on. Nothing at all. From
now on, we have to be a bit careful, that's all.”

“I've tidied up a bit, especially in the studio. And I’ve put up some
more tape around the cellar door. The smell was coming through
something awful.”

“But the studio is out of bounds, Paul.”

“I know you said that but…”

“Yes, the circumstances. Given the circumstances, just this once.”
“They left a mess. All your boxes were on the floor.”

“The Clingfilm?”

“Yes, your boxes of Clingfilm.”

“I use it to wrap the paintings. It keeps the damp away.”

“I guessed that. I guessed that's what you used it for.”

The subject was good enough: an island of trees giving the illusion of a
suspended mass, an object and its reflection bathed in light.
During the last week or so Mrs Unsworth had made experimental
dabs, changing this key and that value and yet was still puzzled by its
lack of depth. Mrs Unsworth was seventy, fragile, her tiny frame
warped by arthritis. A widow, she had been coming to class for four
years, making use of her enforced independence.

“I've told you before that you can't have the paint too thin where the
light is weak. You've been skimping again. I know that paint's
expensive but better to use a smaller canvas and get it right.”
“Oh, I know, I know. I blame my husband, God bless his soul, but
I've become so used to frugality. He used to boil the carrot tops, you
know, you know? To put it another way, Mr Lawrence, he was a tight
bastard. Right up to the day he died. It caused his death, you know,
you know? We were in Sainsbury's, the meat section, when he saw the
cost of lamb chops and died on the spot. Caused quite a commotion,
I'll say. He went just like that. He saw the price per kilo and hadn’t got
a clue what that was, then slowly he converted it to English money,
pounds, and then slowly shook his head in wonder and then, very
slowly, he dropped to his knees. For a moment I thought he was
praying but then, he slipped sideways and went all the way. I
remember it so well, you know, you know? So very well. I just stood
there watching. I couldn't move. His leg shot out and hung in the air
for a moment, kicking, waving. Waving goodbye, maybe. And that
was it, you know, you know? His final wave to me. Gone. After thirtyfive
years. Gone. And you know, you know what

the funny thing is? He was a liver and bacon man. Liver, bacon, mash
and fried onions with thick lumpy gravy. He never even liked lamb!”
She shook her white-haired head. “It's always amazed me, though,
when I see the news, the farmers on the news, when they say they have
to kill off their lambs because they're not worth the money. You tell
me if you can, if the farmers are getting pennies, you know, you know?
Then who is getting rich, eh? Eh?” And with that, with a slender
arthritic finger, she poked him forcefully in the arm.

Rubbing his arm, he said, “I wish I had an answer. Someone is, and
that's for sure. Maybe the wholesalers, perhaps the owners of the
abattoirs, or the hauliers or perhaps, more likely, those villains who
own the supermarkets. Whoever they are, I'm sure their religion is not
Church of England. I'm sure that pork scratchings are not on their
menu. But, nevertheless, you have used that excuse before.”
“Oh I know, I know. But time flies when you get to our age. Not
that you’re as old as me. But doesn’t it just? How many days in your
life can you actually remember? How many weeks? How many
months? Such a waste, I think. And you know, you know, you never
think about the waste of time until you’re running out of it.”
“You’re so right, Mrs Unsworth.”

“You can call me Dolly, Mr Lawrence. I think we’ve known each
other long enough to end the formality. I was beautiful once and once
you would have wanted to paint me.”

“I have told you this before Mrs Unsworth – Dolly – my preference
is for landscapes.”

“I know. I know you have, I remember, but you know, you know,
on a young woman’s body, Mr Lawrence, are the most wonderful
landscapes that you will ever find. And I’ll tell you something else, for
if you look closely so that you see beneath the weather-beaten surface,
you’ll find those same landscapes on an old girl too.”

In the class there were six others beside Mrs Unsworth.

Mr Lawrence coughed for their attention. It was not an easy thing
to hold. With the older members it tended to wander. And with the
youngsters it was never there in the first place. But for the moment the
group turned as one. “Now, because it's our last meeting before the
festive break I've arranged a little something special. This evening
we'll be concentrating on the figure. I suppose we could call it still life.
At least, that is what I am hoping. We have a model.”

This caused some excitement and they hurriedly unpacked their
trappings.