Director's cut
Page 33
“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.”
“Right,” the manager snapped in his efficient mode. “Be right there.” He turned to the probationer. “Make notes in your notebook. Be back in a mo’.” He paused, for Miss Knightley had made all the difference and they were now a brotherhood, and added, perhaps in confidence, “It’s probably the lottery. It causes more trouble than it’s worth.”
Then he was gone and the door, a fire door that swung shut automatically, swung shut. And First Year Probationer PC Simon Thomason was left alone in the stockroom with the mannequin that looked like Keira Knightley and, come to that, a dozen other stars that graced the silver screen. He made a few notes, height, colouring, no obvious blemishes and so on and his closer insp ection got closer still and, given the circumstances, to obtain a complete picture, he pulled aside her pants. And that was when the door swung open and Mr Solomon, the manager, and the occupants of CB1, PCs Wendy Booth and Carrie Jones, stood framed in the doorway. The manager raised an ominous eyebrow, the brotherhood forgotten instantly, and together, as one, the PCs burst into uncontrollable laughter. Shit street. There’s one in every town.
As he walked through the police car park to the rear entrance no one seemed to notice him. The uniforms strolled to their cars without giving him a second glance. In the corridor much was the same, not a glance or a knowing look. Until, that is, Sergeant Mike Wilson stopped him. He looked after the probationers. His uniform was too big and flapped around his legs.
“Where are they?”
“What’s that, Skipper?”
“The cigs, lad, the cigs?”
“The cigs?”
“Listen, lad, you’re sent out on a Friday night for one reason only. You work the precincts and you collect the cigs from the little hooligans who hang around them. Confiscate the cigs. Share them out with the lads. A dozen packs or so should do it, depending on how full they are.” “No one told me.”
“No one told you? You’re going to be the bloody flavour of the month if we’ve got to start buying our own cigs. Have you never heard of initiative? It’s what good coppers are made of.”
The sergeant checked hi s wat ch. “Now, after your break, go out again and check the arcades. Some of the little bastards won’t have gone to bed yet.”
PC Thomason realized his mouth had dropped again. He closed it quickly and said, “Skipper, it’s the end of my shift.”
“Wrong. You got it wrong again. It would have been if you’d used your initiative. See?” The PC nodded gloomily.
“Just remember,” his sergeant went on. “The older kids have wised up so go for the eleven and twelve-year-olds. And boys, not girls. The girls give you too much lip and it can cause a scene. It’s the hormones in the food.”
“Right.”
“Oh, and by the way, a word in your shell-like.”
“Skipper?”
“Had a call from the manager of the supermarket. Didn’t use your spray on the model, did you?” Consternation shook Thomason’s head. He stammered, “No, no!”
“That’s good. We only use that on pensioners.” Sergeant Wilson nodded. “No problem. I talked him out of making a complaint. Told him you were still learning the trade. Anyway, get out there and do your stuff. Remember, keep in mind that the enhancement of a charge is good for the figures, that abusive behaviour or drunk and disorderly can be written as resisting arrest and assault on a police officer. It’s a simple spelling mistake. We call it poetic licence. In the job we’re all fucking poets. Right?”
PC Thomason watched the flapping uniform move off down the corridor and was still thinking about CS spray as he pushedopen the door to the canteen.
In the canteen everything seemed normal, as though nothing had happened, the other coppers hadn’t heard about it.
He caught sight of Wendy Booth and Carrie Jones in front of full English breakfasts and they barely acknowledged him.
First Year Probationer PC Simon Thomason breathed a tremendous sigh of relief as he joined the queue at the stainless steel counter. Behind him the first snigger began to spread and various faces reddened as laughter was held in. Lips trembled as they tightened and cheeks blew out until it all became too much. And then in the room of twenty or more uniforms the uncontrolled laughter cracked the faces and shook the uniforms beneath them.
PC Simon Thomason stood rooted to the spot, plastic tray in trembling hands, dying a death that awaited all first year probationers. It was a playground, a vast nation-wide playground, and it was playtime again.
Deleted Scene II
“I’m going to be your Christmas present.” Maynard reached forward and turned the key. “See, kid, you got it wrong again.”
“What then?”
“Remember the pigs, my mother’s place? Thought you might come up and meet her and spend Christmas Day with us, that’s all. I’ll drive you back on Boxing Day, if you like.”
“What, like Christmas dinner? Turkey?”
“If you like.”
“Real pigs?”
“You’d have to get used to the smell.”
“That don’t bother me.”
“Well then?”
The wheels skidded on wet grass and they bounced back to the road.
“Left or right? Left is where you came from.” Maynard said. “Your call?”
The clouds had shouldered in again and rain pelted the windscreen. He turned on the wipers, for a moment blurring the patch of road caught in the headlights.
Jason or Brian or Noel said, “Can I feed the pigs?”
In the darkness Maynard smiled and turned right, north, away from the…city.
…
“OK, guys, thanks a lot. That’s a wrap. See you all next time. Oh, er, drinks at my place, yeah?”
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Document version: 1
Document creation date: 02.07.2011
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