Director's Cut (42 page)

“Yeah, you’re right, Breath. I’m sorry.”

“You should be. I’ve always been here for you. You’ve never had to ask that question. I’m your fucking,
you know…fucking… Right?”

Ticker Harrison nodded sadly. Breathless Billy, for all his faults, was his right-hand man and just lately
he’d been taking him for granted. He heard the voice again, the breathless wheezing voice.
“Boss, what’s this piece of fucking wire stretched across the room for? For fuck’s sake, ankle high, you
could trip over that fucker and do yourself some damage.”

“Breathless, for fuck’s sake, don’t touch – ”

The moon was in its last quarter and the stars were as bright as he’d ever seen them. There were some
dark clouds shouldering in from the east but for the moment they were unloading over Lover’s Wood. It
wouldn’t be long before they reached the office. Cole turned from the window to face the silent incident
room. The midnight oil had run out, the long unnecessary paperwork in duplicate and triplicate
completed.

Anian placed a coffee on his desk.

“You’re going to have people talking.”

“We’re the only ones left, apart from the front desk. Sad people, aren’t we?”

He tasted the bitter coffee and pulled a face then said, “You should be at Hinckley or on sick leave. I’m
surprised the North Mid let you out so soon.”

“Unless you’re dying you’re kicked out at Christmas, you know that Guv. I’m all right, honest. Even the
counsellor agreed, said it was the best thing for me.”

“For God’s sake, Anian, you weren’t keen to come here when you were needed and now we can’t get rid
of you.”

“Hinckley’s on holiday. There’s a notice on the door saying that in an emergency contact the Sheerham
desk.”

“Is this an emergency?”

She held his gaze for an instant too long.

“You should be at home putting out mince pies and hanging up your stocking.”

“I don’t wear stockings. I thought you might have noticed.”

His smile was unexpected and warm and his blue eyes caught the overhead and sparked.
“Well, this is an emergency, Guv. You can tell me to go if you like.”

He said eventually, “I was just off to the boozer. I don’t suppose you’d fancy a pint?”
She gave him a little cat’s grin. “I was hoping you were going to say that. I don’t want to be alone tonight.
It’s Christmas Eve and my

flatmates have pulled duty.”

“Nurses, who’d have them? Their shifts are even worse than ours.”

“They drew straws and got New Year’s Eve. It’s always one or the other. Now Geoff’s gone I was
wondering if I could use your spare room, or even the sofa?”

His pause seemed to go on forever before he said, “It’s probably not a good idea.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “You’re probably right.”

“On the other hand, if you know how to cook a turkey…”

A sudden smile lit her face. “You’ve actually got a turkey?”

“Well, not at the moment, but there are people will open a shop for me at any time day or night.”
“You’d have to get the trimmings too. Brussels sprouts and Christmas pudding and pigs in blankets and
crackers and…chestnut stuffing –”

He was about to respond with a Rick Cole line that was as good as you’d get on a dark December night
when a case had been put to bed and a Teacher’s beckoned with its promise of fool’s gold, when a
distant rumble had him turning back to the window. It took him a few moments to realize it was another
bomb.

He shook his head and in almost a whisper said, “I wish I knew who was doing that.”
“Kids,” she responded. “You’d think they’d have something better to do on Christmas Eve, wouldn’t
you?”

He considered telling her about the house that had been demolished and the two accidental deaths that had
been reclassified as murder but decided it could wait for another time. “Come on,” he said instead.

“Get your coat.”

From outside came the sounds of shouts and car horns and distant sirens and, above them all, a lone
drunken voice: “Happy Christmas everyone! Have yourselves a very happy Christmas!”

“Hello, I’m Julian Foster Grant. I don’t normally do these
director’s cuts because I think my movies are brilliant to start with. All these
director’s cuts are doing is putting hardearned money into the pockets of distributors
and studios.

Now what you’re doing is giving more money to the fuckers
who didn’t want you to see my original version in the first place. Or, even
if they did, they realize that by picking up some shit from the cutting-room
floor they can sell it to you again.

(Whisper off camera)

That was a joke, right? Ha, ha, ha. That wasn’t true.

Anyway, I thought Jude and Nicole were brilliant in this
and, er, I was really sorry to have to lose it. Unfortunately it held back the,
er, er...

(Whisper off camera)

...pace, that’s it. What I was trying to do, was explore
the,

er, er...

(another whisper off camera)

...fundamental differences, about passion, which there
weren’t any and that’s why we had to cut it. (another whisper)

About, er, you know, that passion doesn’t, er, you know,
as you get older, that it’s the same for the old gits as it is for the young
people. It’s just that the old gits can’t do anything about it. And I think
that really comes through. Like I said, I thought Madge was excellent... Sorry,
didn’t I say that? Anyway, I was really sorry that she ended up, er, ended,
er, on the cutting room floor. So was she. In this scene, right, as we enter
the supermarket, Robot City, the camera swoops over the rows of tins of Heinz
Beans and Batchelors Peas and Princes Tuna

Steaks and the lighting picks up Del Monte Fruit Cocktails
and double cream and all the cheeses and then slowly we track up to the lingerie
section with the models. I mean, we built this big dipper near enough, so the
camera would go up and down and over the rows of food, mile after mile of the
stuff, pizzas and puddings, blancmanges and curries, Bakewell tarts and macaroons
and then...then we come to the models in the bras and knickers and suspenders,
the women’s underwear section. See? See the point? (another whisper)

Well the point is...that if you ate all that fucking food
you wouldn’t be able to get into any of the fucking knickers. Anyway, that scene
was my homage, if you like, to Michael Winner who used a similar take in Death
Wish Two...

(whisper)

Sorry, wrong film, wrong director. It was Antonioni’s La
Notte. You’ll notice the close-ups. Wink, wink, yeah. In the trade we call them
Sergio Leones. I want a Sergio Leone I’d say, and everyone would know exactly
what I meant. See what I mean? That’s movie-maker’s speak, like, you know? Anyway,
like I said, er, Madge was brilliant as the dummy. My mate Quentin suggested
some sixties music over the scene but I said no, no, sixties music was overrated,
just like your films. What I wanted was an Ennio Morricone score as we swept
over the rows of cans and chocolates and cakes. This scene takes place shortly
after Mr Lawrence discovers the dummies in his shop window. See what you fink.
Er, er, that’s it.

(Off camera)

Fuck that for a living. Don’t ask me to do that again.
Yeah?

Saturday. Early. A time for nurses and milkmen and baker s and insomniacs when the rest of the world
was asleep, when Friday night and no alarm clock in the morning had got the better of the rest, an ethereal
time when silly thoughts took on immense profundity and last night’s problems were less severe. For the
plods the long night was drawing to its close. They’d dozed in their secret places, of course, but it wasn’t
the same.

First Year Probationer PC Simon Thomason had started his shift the previous evening, showing a
presence to the local teenagers. He was twenty-two. He’d left college with A-levels, passed the
interviews, the physical and psychometric tests, and joined the force in August, the month that produced
the worst crime figures. The schools were shut for their summer holidays during August but the experts
will tell you that this is just a coincidence. Other experts will tell you that the hot weather is to blame.
Members of the general public, less expert in such matters, would wonder why the yob culture had not
spread to the countries where the sun shone relentlessly. The experts would tell you that it had nothing to
do with the fact that in those countries the prisons were such that even prison visitors did not want to visit.
PC Thomason faced a two-year probationary period, combining classroom studies in law and procedure
with on-the-job training.

He’d been at Sheerham a week but it seemed longer. It seemed like a lifetime. He worked under the
guidance of an experienced officer, sometimes a sergeant, more often than not

a PC father figure. But last night he’d been let loose for
the serious crime was drawing all the manpower. So he’d been plodding, waiting
for calls, showing some uniform. He’d dealt with someone’s scratched car and
moved on a bunch of kids using a shop window as goalposts. But for him the night
had died young. Perhaps they had forgotten he was out there.

Dawn was fading in and he was looking forward to a healthy copper’s breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausage,
black pudding and fried bread, when the shout came through.

The operator said wearily, “A disturbance at Robot City, you should be close.”

He responded, “Just round the corner.”

“CB1 is on the way. There will be flashing lights and a loud siren. For your information, just in case
you’re a career copper, the lights and siren are known in the trade as blues and twos.

Try not to miss them.”

It was far too early for sarcasm and it flew unnoticed over Thomason’s head.

First Year Probationer Simon Thomason arrived before CB1 and the supermarket manager, Mr David
Solomon, collared him at the door.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” the manager said, tapping his
Disney watch and straightening his Mickey Mouse tie. He carried a walkie-talkie
to let everyone know how important he was.

Flustered, the first year probationer said, “Sorry, I was round the corner.”

“For what do we pay our rates? For law and order. If I were late the shop wouldn’t open, then what?
Pensioners would go hungry, women would have nothing to do, nowhere for them to
bring their disgusting sticky-fingered children to leave their sticky fingerprints all over the stock. My
stock!”

Mr Solomon tugged at Thomason’s arm and all but manhandled him through the revolving door.
Breathlessly he explained, “One of the models has gone missing.”

The probationer narrowed his eyes and asked, “Is she pregnant?”

The manager paused and threw him a strange look then rushed ahead, a thin short streak of black flapping
jacket and baggy pinstripe trousers.

l. It was here that Mr Solomon
was waiting impatiently for him and where other members of staff in their green
Robot City uniforms stood in small groups to watch, their expressions dark and
serious. This was obviously a serious business.

The probationer asked reluctantly, “Can we have the name of the missing…?”

“Name?”

“Yes Sir?”

The manager shook his head and pointed to an empty stand between the shelves of flimsy bras and pants.
Thomason made an O with his lips and left them open.

Eventually he composed himself and uttered, “A model, a mannequin, a dummy. I see.”
He took out his notebook. “When did you notice its absence, Sir?”

“This morning. An hour ago.”

“Is there another one that I can see, Sir?”

Solomon looked horrified. “Each one is unique. That is what this boutique is famous for. Individual styles
that are affordable.”

“And this one, the one that is missing, what did it look like? Was it a full figure like that?” He pointed to
another dummy at the end of the row. “Or just the bust, like this?” His pointing finger moved to the bra
counter.

“Full figure.”

“Dressed, Sir?”

“Of course, in our new designer range for the sophisticated woman. We sell all sizes between 8 and 12.
Make sure you note that in your report. We don’t want anyone accusing us of not catering for the fuller
figure.”

“Underwear?”

“Yes.” The manager wagged a thoughtful finger. “But wait a moment. I do have something to show you.
In the stockroom. Came in last night. Something very similar. You will notice that these models share a
likeness with Keira Knightley?”

“Yes, Sir. They are very thin.”

“Not thin, perfect. Perfect for our new range of lingerie.”

“Like a coat-hanger, you mean?”

The manager paused, then continued on to the stockroom. In
a rush he opened a single door and ushered Thomason in. Before him lay cages
of unwrapped goods and shelving that went on forever. “This is the one,” the
manager said, halting before a partially dressed mannequin. “As near as damn
it.” Beneath the model a soft-covered book had been left open on the shelf.
The manager pulled a dismissive face. “What’s this?
Atonement
? McEwan?
Never heard of it, or him.” He sighed. “I wish the staff wouldn’t use the stockroom
for their tea-breaks.”

“I see what you mean. She is like Keira. Saw the film, just last week. She was in a football strip, poking
through, gorgeous. What was it called?”

“Pirates of the Caribbean?”

“No, no, not that one.” Thomason shook his head, trying to shake back the memory. It came out of
nowhere. “Bend it Like Beckham, that’s the one!”

“Didn’t see it,” Solomon confessed. “Football strip, you say? I’ll get the DVD. By golly, thanks for that.”
A woman in green poked her head around the door. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr Solomon, but we have a
problem.”