Director's cut

by I K Watson

  “Yep. That’s what comes from taking the plods off the street.”

  The DS grinned. “Have there been any results at all?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well?”

  “Remember the mannequin nicked from the supermarket? Found her. Took her back. The manager had to give her a bath to get rid of some unwanted hair.”

  Butler frowned, wanting more.

  Cole smiled, not giving any.

  And the white door with its square window swung shut.

  Chapter 39

  He’d been dying.

  He’d given up without a fight. He’d watched his blood spreading out and he just lay there, not caring one way or the other. He needed help. He needed someone like himself to help him.

  He was giving in too easily.

  The midnight light caught the boy’s face and turned it as smooth as ivory. His eyes had darkened and his eyelashes seemed incredibly long. His slim frame leant toward the window.

  “I know you, don’t I? Yeah, yeah. It’s you. I thought you might be back, some day. One day. Like, you know, don’t you? Dosh, dosh, dick, dick. Gotta be it. Can’t hide it. Not really. But you don’t hang around here, do you? Or didn’t you know?” The voice was confident, older, and faintly taunting. This was his turf, after all, and there was someone in the shadows listening in. “What happened to your face?” “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Nice one. Bet it wasn’t shaving. Well, shall I get in, or what?

  Dick, dick. Make up your mind?”

  “You’ve got the wrong idea, just like before.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. Honest I do. Well, time’s ticking. Time is dosh. Dosh, right? Dick dosh, dick dosh. No time to chat, right?”

  The street was surprisingly busy. But maybe not that surprising. Revellers staggered from the boozers toward the clubs, green bottles swinging. It was party night and it had to last until New Year’s Eve. “Get in.”

  He pulled open the door, waved to the shadow who watched from a shop doorway then slid into the passenger seat. Closer, lost in the leather, he seemed even slimmer than before. The sweet scent of weed filled the car. Female leaf or maybe pollen. It was strong. It was on his hands and in his clothes. The car pulled out into traffic and neon strip washed the windscreen. In the car the lights slid across their faces. The boy stirred nervously, his feet tapping the devil’s dance, his laced fingers opening and closing. It was always a gamble. You could never tell. Psychos looked like the man next door. This one worked with the coppers but that didn’t mean a thing. He knew this one, but you never knew, not really.

  “Tick tock, dick dosh.”

  “What do they call you now? Has it changed?”

  “Anything you like.”

  “You choose?”

  “Noel then. I like Noel.”

  “Christmas?”

  “Oasis. Noel Gallagher.”

  Maynard smiled into the darkness. Another strip blinked red as they passed a fried chicken takeaway. It flared on his stitches. He asked, “How old are you?” The red went out and left him in green from the dash.

  “Thirteen if you like. Or sixteen. Or eighteen if it bothers you. I’m easy. I know a place. Supermarket car park is good, at the back. Empty at this time. Dick, dick. That’s the place. The barrier’s always up.” Maynard shook his head. He skirted Lover’s Wood and pulled in at the back, beyond a line of shivering firs. The floor beneath was thick with needles and cones that crunched under the wheels. The car pushed through grass and bramble that swiped at the windows and sprang up behind them. He turned off the engine and they sat in the dark listening to the wind. The woods creaked and the grass brushed against the car.

  Patches of night sky freed itself from the rushing clouds and glistened enough to glow on the boy’s delicate features.

  Maynard said quietly, “It’s almost Christmas Day.”

  The boy glanced at the dash clock. “Yeah, that’s a thing, innit? I’m going to be your Christmas present.”

  Chapter 40

  They had cleared out the Warren.

  The kids had gone along with the weird bastard who looked out for them. When Ticker Harrison and his men arrived it was silent.

  There was no peace on earth and goodwill – and definitely no rest – for Ticker Harrison’s merry men. They knew who paid the bills and for this year at least the herald-angels kept their hallelujahs in check. They broke open a door and marched in, ready to knock the shit out of anything that moved. But they’d gone.

  Breathless Billy said, “Told you I had it all in hand, Boss. We didn’t need to check, not on a night like this. For fuck sake, I can take care of a bunch of fucking…kids!”

  “Yeah, you’re right Breath, but the cunt that was with them, there was something about him I didn’t like. He was a fucking nutter and you never know what’s going on in a nutter’s head.”

  Ticker had coped with the news of his wife’s death better than anyone expected. There had been no mourning, not that they had seen.

  As far as Ticker was concerned, she’d had an affair with some fucker in Spain, more likely than not a greasy fucked-up paella type with a mouth from here to Barcelona. She’d had her affair, come back, gone to the shop, and that’s where Lawrence had gutted her. Lawrence, that old fucker, had saved him the bother. He would have shaken his hand, the one with the missing finger. He had even taken down her picture from that place above the fireplace. Given it to a charity shop. They had sold it the same day to a man in brown shoes, for two pounds and fifty pence.

  “But I do know where you’re coming from, Breathless Billy. I’ve learned a few important lessons in the last few weeks. And one of them is you can’t trust anyone. Fuck me, if you can’t trust your own wife, who the fuck can you trust?”

  “I know that, Boss. I know that. But women is different. You learn in fucking junior school that you can’t trust them. Even then they’re nicking your fags, ain’t they? Think of that fucking, you know, what’s her fucking name?”

  “Eh?”

  “Mata Hairy or something.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Then there was fucking Eve, right? Read between the lines and she shoved a fucking apple up her muffta.”

  “Since when have you read the fucking bible?”

  Breathless Billy shook a sad head. “You can’t fucking trust them. But men are different. Some of us. Some of us is trustworthy. Like your brother, maybe, or your fucking priest. Or, and this is the point, Boss, your fucking right-hand man. Namely me.”

  “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 – ”

  Chapter 41

  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!”

  Deleted Scene with director’s commentary

  Deleted scene: Director’s commentary.

  “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?

  Deleted Scene.

  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 w
ay. 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?”