Director's cut

by I K Watson

  “Maybe.”

  “The painting of Helen?”

  “Mrs Harrison?”

  “Yes, Mrs Helen Harrison. Did she just come right out with it? I’m pregnant, I want you to paint me? Did she throw off her clothes and say ‘like this’? That doesn’t seem like Helen at all.”

  “I seem to recall covering this ground with you before. It wasn’t like that at all.”

  “What then? Tell me? If there’s going to be a reconstruction I’ll have to know?”

  “But, my goodness, you don’t look a bit like Mrs Harrison. You’re the wrong colour for a start. She was a blonde and very pale.” “I’m sure you could manage. You have every colour in the universe in those tubes.”

  “You’ve seen the picture yourself. She was sitting more or less where you are. And she was thrilled with the idea, I have no doubt about that. I’m convinced it was a performance and she was loving every minute. I’ll go further. I think she’d rehearsed it. It seems ludicrous I know, but there you are. I remember it well, the dress around her waist baring her breasts. That’s how I would have chosen to paint her. Just like that.”

  “So she was braless when she arrived?”

  “That’s right, she was.” He wagged a paintbrush. “But don’t read anything into that. I had noticed before, when she came in to make the booking, that she often left off her…”

  “Bra?”

  “Right.”

  “Can you tell that I’m not wearing a bra?”

  “I hadn’t noticed. But today I’ve been concentrating on your face. But now you mention it I would have a problem because you are rather…slim, that’s the word.”

  “Small is better. I have small breasts.”

  “Yes, that’s it. Mrs Harrison was rather generous in that area.” “What then?”

  “Then? Then she hitched up her dress and we got on with it.” “If I wanted you to paint me that way…?”

  “I would think you were joking.”

  “And if I wasn’t?”

  “Then we would start again.”

  “What is it about the nude?”

  “The experts will tell you it has to do with the timeless universal quality of art. To wrap a figure in clothes immediately dates the painting. You’re restless, getting uncomfortable. Shall we take a break? I’m nearly through in any case. I’ll pour us some more wine.

  That one is wearing off. I like the way it brings the colour to your face.”

  “I’m fine. More than one glass will go to my head. I’m not used to it at all. Do you think Paul could have something to do with Sandra’s disappearance?”

  “Could he be the father? I doubt it. I think he only saw her the once.”

  “And no one’s seen her since?”

  Mr Lawrence shrugged. “Someone must have done.”

  “Is it possible that Paul met Helen?”

  “Mrs Harrison? It’s possible. This is his hunting ground, after all, and she came here. Tell me what you’re getting at?”

  “OK,” she said. “Let me play detective.” A smile fluttered about her lips. She continued, “We have a number of missing women. None of them took their personal possessions.”

  “Didn’t they? I didn’t know that.”

  “It was in the paper, I think. Anyway, that means that they didn’t run off. Some of the women were involved with you, one through your art class, another through the painting. They were married, one of them happily – ”

  “Who knows whether they were happy?”

  “Granted.”

  “What else?”

  “They were expecting. Did you use Sandra as a model?”

  “For the class?”

  “Personally.”

  “No, not for the class or personally.”

  “It’s a fascinating idea.”

  “Yes, I can see that. And certainly I’ll agree with you that I am a common factor.”

  “And their pregnancies, and the fact that they are local.”

  “Right, they have all that in common.”

  “Did Helen ever visit The British?”

  “I never saw Mrs Harrison there. It’s not really her kind of place.”

  “What about local restaurants? We know that Paul met Sandra.

  Maybe he met Helen too. Maybe, after finishing a session with you, Helen went for a drink or a meal in one of the local restaurants, and there she bumped into Paul.”

  “Let me stop you there. Mrs Harrison sharing a drink with young Paul Knight could not happen in a thousand years. Mrs Harrison would die sooner than acknowledge the existence of a youngster like Paul

  Knight. I’m not for one moment suggesting that she is choosy with her company, simply that, for her, the Paul Knights of the world don’t exist. In any case, at the time of Mrs Harrison’s disappearance, Paul was being entertained at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Hold it just there!”

  “Well, he is a bit odd.”

  “I mean keep still. I’m dealing with your eyes. They seem to have narrowed slightly.”

  “Sorry. I was getting carried away. I can’t get Helen’s disappearance out of my head. Perhaps it’s an unhealthy interest. She was my friend.”

  “I hope she still is.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ve noticed during this session that the hem of your dress has moved up a little. It is undoing my composition.”

  She moved one long leg against the other and said, “It must be the wine. I feel quite giddy. It’s just that… I was just wondering about that reconstruction you mentioned. Whether it would jog a memory, something that you missed, something important.”

  “My goodness, I was wondering about that too.”

  Chapter 32

  He had things to do, errands for Mr Lawrence. He had to stay in the shadows for in the light the filth were about looking for the missing girl, Sandra. And they were on to him. Paul was sure of that. If he were staying he would have to get shot of everything. Couldn’t leave it in the room. They’d find it all and that would be that. End of story. Checkmate, mate! You could guarantee they’d make another search, find a hair from his ex-cell mate, or some blood between the floorboards. DNA, that’s the word. Right? They’d find the DNA and that would be that, without passing go. They’d blame him for everything. Even Sandra. He’d be lucky to get out with a walking frame. Still, he wasn’t hanging around for that to happen. No way. Time to retreat. Like Dunkirk. Like the old soldiers…like…like the colonel, but not to the same place. Legging it, innI?

  It had been a funny sort of day. Special days always were – the days of weddings and funerals and court appearances where you’re stood up in front of a beak. Colours seemed different, darker, and sounds seemed different, louder. It started early, he remembered, earlier than most, before the sun was up, before it was…light. It was still dark when Laura came in. Her eyes were sleepless and her legs were shaking and a little bandy and she looked altogether exhausted. That was the night shift for you, he supposed. It did you no good at all. Mr Lawrence made her some tea and forced her to drink it. He looked after her. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow. Only halfundressed. Or dressed. But they completed the undressing anyway, so she wouldn’t… You know?

  Strangle or something.

  Mr Lawrence gave her bottom a little pat and Paul gave it a little stroke, little gestures of endearment, perhaps parting gestures, for their leave-taking was fast approaching.

  But Paul had important things to do.

  First he had to go to Boots. Mr Lawrence had spelt it out. He had to visit the booth and have his photograph taken. He spent some minutes admiring the image of the girl looking back at him. Then he had to take the strip of photographs along with a brown envelope that Mr Lawrence had given him across town to a small backstreet shop where a thin grey man named Arnold took the strip of photographs and the brown envelope and told him to wait. He waited for almost an hour before Arnold appeared again and gave him yet another envelope. He didn’t look inside but he knew that the en
velope contained two passports. He’d guessed that all by himself. Maybe they were going to Scotland or some other place where the law couldn’t find them. He nodded. Mr Lawrence had it all in hand.

  Arnold said, “Anything else I can do for you – firearms, bomb-making equipment, recipes? I’ve got a nice line in Iraqi headgear, only slightly smoke-damaged – call them seconds.”

  “No,” Paul stuttered. “No, thank you.”

  He needed to get out of there. It was too heavy for him. He hit the pavement, still stuttering.

  Then he was on the move again, back to the High Road where he knew his way around.

  In the travel agency a woman wearing thick foundation whose hair was thinned and split by too many perms in the seventies gave him a funny look along with the tickets. He’d noticed that women of a certain age, like, maybe forty or fifty, looked at other women differently, threateningly.

  He’d noticed that. He got a bit flustered by the threat, said Paul instead of Paula, that sort of thing. Easy mistake. But he wouldn’t make it again. Probably forgot to wiggle his behind as well. Such is life. And what was more, the tissue fell out of his left breast as he bent to sign. When that happened the woman behind the desk was immediately sympathetic and fingered a little pink ribbon she’d pinned to her cardigan. Amazing how, once the threat was no longer relevant, girls stick together. Men weren’t like that. The glue that held men together was only temporary, just for the moment, made up of alcohol. It wasn’t lasting. Men didn’t have friends, as such, only opponents. They promised they would stay in touch because words were cheap, boozy words cheaper still, but they never did. At the end of the day men were destined to be alone even in a crowd. It was the nature of things, probably because they couldn’t have babies. Yeah.

  He made himself scarce for an hour or two, following Mr

  Lawrence’s instructions. Timing, remember? Timing’s important, Paul!

  “It’s Paula, Mr Lawrence. It’s Paula now, innit?”

  “Yes, you’re right. I see it now. Silly of me not to have noticed.” After picking up the tickets he kept to the backstreets. The filth were in the High Road, in force, stopping people in the street and showing them pictures of Sandra. It was like the war, like the cold, cold war, like Moscow, like Berlin or something, that’s it, hiding in dark doorways, running across streets, dodging traffic, in high heels, keeping your back to the wall. A dangerous game. An excellent game. You knew you were, like, alive. Like the old soldiers used to say – like the colonel used to say, when he was alive – there was nothing more exhilarating than a game of hide-and-seek. And the dress riding up all the time. Like a king pawn opening, he’d say. Like the bloody King’s Gambit and, that was bloody dodgy.

  Darkness crept in mid-afternoon, but that suited him. The old four o’clock was growing through the foundation. Another hour or two and he’d look like a Spanish housewife. Sod that for a living. He crept back to the shop. It was closed. The old man was in his studio and Laura was still sound asleep. He climbed under the stairs. Wanted a last look. Kneeling down in a tight dress proved a right game. He had to pull it to his waist. In the darkness the studio light flooded through the crack in the wall. He adjusted his eyes. He loved cracks.

  The old geezer was still there, standing behind his easel like Vinny Gough. Dab-dabbing, mixing, squinting, a knife here, a brush there, the whole game. A serious bloody painter, Paul would say. But hold on! Hold on just a minute! Forget the painting. Paul couldn’t believe his eyes. Not the Indian! Not the Paki! That sort of thing was against their religion, or so he thought. Paul’s mouth dropped open.

  Bombay duck! Holy Fuck! It was like a brown liquorice allsort, brown and brown with a streak of black running through the middle. This was the Golden Gate, mate, the Grand Canyon, Niagara bloody Falls no less. This was cowboy country and he, Paul, wanted to mount up. Talk about excitement. Talk about Basic Instinct. Sharon Stone is on the phone. Hit the pause, Santa Claus. Christmas is coming and so is Paul Knight.

  Even the voice was getting excited and he could hear the excited words. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

  And she was giving him the come-on. Not much. Paul could see it all right. But the old man didn’t seem to notice. Maybe the angle was wrong for him. But he noticed. Paul didn’t miss a trick like that. And the dress was raised. No kidding. Paul’s dress was raised. And the soft lace was tightening by the moment. The old lingerie was wonderful. No wonder the catalogues were full of it. Paul reached down. No option, really.

  In the narrow road behind the shop the red glow from the High Road painted the sky above the rooftops. The sky groaned. It was going to unload, rain or, more likely, snow. It was certainly cold enough. The red light poured like lava down the sloping slates and curled around the thick clumps of crawling moss. It seemed to cling to everything as it edged down the walls to the narrow pavement.

  The filth was there, waiting for him. Mr Lawrence had been right. You had to give it to the old guys. If they’d left it another day, another hour, it would have been too late. When Mr Lawrence told him, Paul didn’t believe it at first. Just goes to show. Experience, all that. Paul crept up to the filth. He had the car window down and was listening to the radio. Paul could hear Mr Lawrence’s voice, then the woman’s. The woman from India. She was wired. Mr Lawrence was right about that too. Clever old geezer. Just goes to show. You couldn’t dismiss the old geezers out of hand. That’s why they won the war, he supposed. Paul could still learn a thing or two.

  The hammer was in his handbag until he took it out. Just an ordinary hammer with a wooden shaft and steel head. The steel glinted red. The filth didn’t know what hit him, just above the ear. Phut! A dull thud. Like the noise you got when you stuck a knife into a white leather sofa.

  Paul looked about. The road was still empty. He turned off the filth’s radio and straightened his breasts. On the way out of the narrow road, on the way to the station, he picked up the suitcase he’d left just inside the back gate. Now he was going. Trains and boats and planes. All that. Defensive play. Don’t try and win a drawn game. Life’s like that: a game of chess – winning, losing, but mostly Stalemate. You only lost at the end of it. Like…at the…end of it. He started down the steps of an underpass, taking care in his high heels. And that’s when he noticed a woman following him. A blonde. A blond spiky-haired woman in a short burgundy shift with matching painted toenails – every year’s colour.

  Chapter 33

  The first guest to arrive for the party had stayed till the end even though his plans had been unexpectedly modified. It meant a change in venue for the last dance. Auld Lang Syne had to be played away from the Square, somewhere else, on another crowded street where one pretty face was lost among others. His encounter with the big guy had probably been a mistake and still he wasn’t sure who he was and why he had been following. He hadn’t looked like a copper or, come to that, your average punter, but nowadays who could tell? Long gone were the days when you could go by looks alone. The police force, in particular, was more than likely employing dwarfs, Gypsies and – he smiled – even trannies to satisfy the PC brigade. And as for the punters – lords, MPs, film stars, judges, you name it. The world had gone mad. Still, since being seen was no longer an issue, it meant he could look into the eyes and that was always special.

  And so for this final frolic he had chosen his partner and he stared across the road at the young woman who was struggling with her suitcase, uneasy on sky-high heels. She moved along the pavement, her right arm and shoulder sagging under the weight of the case. At times, as she moved past the window displays, she was bathed in light. Her tight blue dress was a second skin. But she needed a coat. It was freezing. If she wasn’t careful she would catch her death.

  She was different to the rest and she reminded him of someone else, a face in an old photograph. But it was only the image that he remembered. He couldn’t remember the person. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t bring back the touch or the soft breath. Oh, he fantasized of course,
built a character around the picture. But he never knew her.

  But who was this? This nudge to the past? She might have been a student. Or a tom. No difference from a distance. Not to look at. It was only closer you saw the hardness about the tom. But there was something uninhibited about the way this one moved – free and easy with an adventurous touch, the perfume of the campus – and he did love students. He appreciated intelligence even though he knew that most students didn’t have any. But it didn’t matter for these students with their dreams of better things handled the situation and their fear so much better than their elders – until they realized the inevitable – and then they could appreciate him for what he was: a predator, a jungle cat, a lover. His courtship was the pursuit itself, the hunt, the stalk, his phallus the red-hot blade. Swish, swish, said the blade. He loved the whimper when they saw their own skin parting to reveal the deep pink flesh – pink, before it turned to red.

  He never knew them and that was part of the thrill, reading about them afterwards, the write-ups in the papers, the lives they’d lived and their indiscretions accompanying the photographs of them in bikinis taken on their last holidays on tropical beaches. The newspapers loved bikinis, and tits, if they could get them.

  The screamers were the worst. You sorted them out quickly. Go for the neck to stop them screaming and you’d get covered in blood. No good at all. Just cut it short. Make them know. Take their tits away. It’s mostly fat and no blood, no blood to splatter anyway. Do your business and get out of it.

  The wetters were a nuisance. You could end up getting wet. They wet themselves at the sight of the knife, after he’d used it just once, before he used it again.

  Then the talkers, trying to talk their way out of it even while their blood splashed down.

  Then the kickers, the evening class karate and Kung Fu experts with their coloured belts. Pretty useless, that stuff, unless you knew the danger. And no one ever knew, until they felt the blade.