Director's Cut (33 page)

sound.”

“I didn’t mean that, Mr Lawrence. I didn’t mean the way it

sounded.”

“Tell him. Tonight, or rather, two AM tomorrow morning.”

Paul went off to Robot City with shopping bags and list and a
whole head of thoughts. Mr Lawrence needed more shoe polish –
nothing but Kiwi would do – and Clingfilm and teabags, the Queen
Anne blend of Assam and Lapsang Souchon.

The light in the studio was diffused, as close to summer light as you can get.
The woman arrived and said, “My God, what’s happened?”

“A scratch, my dear, nothing more than a temperamental

guillotine.”

“So many police about,” she said. “Three cars in the road and a
dozen policemen. They’re stopping people.”

“A girl has gone missing.”

“Oh,” she mouthed as though it were a common thing, which of
course, it was.

“Have you had a good day?”

She pulled an indifferent face.

“Oh dear.”

“I’ll get over it.”

“Well, let’s get started, shall we? I’ve opened a tricky little

Beaujolais. It’s a wine that is very much hit-and-miss. It needs a good
year and, according to legend, virginal feet trampling the grape. And
they’re in short supply nowadays. The summers, you see. We’ve had a
series of wet summers.”

“I thought Helen preferred white wine.”

“Did she? DID SHE? Mrs Harrison never complained. What about
you?”

“I like red.”

“It likes you.”

For a while he worked in silence.

Her eyes flicked around the room, searching the shelves and dark
places.

At length she said, “The girl in the shop…”

“Laura?”

“She works for you?”

“I wouldn’t call it work, exactly. There must be a better word.
Through bad luck, really, nothing more than a mother-daughter’s
menstrual cycle coinciding, she’s found herself homeless. Homeless,
just like Paul. I’m putting her up for a few days and just occasionally,
when the mood takes her and, that isn’t often, she helps out in the
shop. In truth, she frightens off more customers than she attracts and
those she attracts are not really interested in art.”

“You seem to attract the waifs and strays.”

“They’re good kids, really. They just need a little help, a point in
the right direction.”

“Her skirts are very short.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that. But she does have nice legs.”

“Has she modelled for you?”

“No. Landscapes are my thing. I mentioned it before. You must
have forgotten.”

“What is it about landscapes?”

“They’re natural. You don’t have to search for honesty.”

“Is that important?”

“It is for an artist. But that’s something you must answer for
yourself.”

Her eyes darkened at the veiled criticism.

“Are you a religious man, Mr Lawrence?”

He recalled Laura bringing up the same subject and wondered what
it was about him that led people to it. He said, “That’s a very personal
question.”

“Yes, but we have become personal.”

“Have we?”

“You are painting me. What can be more personal than that?”
“Not too personal, I hope. But to answer your question, I’m not an
American bible-belter. I don’t believe the earth was created shortly
before the American civil war or that Noah navigated the Mississippi.”
“You read the Bible?”

“I have done but not lately. I always thought it needed a good
editor. Far too much begetting for my liking. But, my goodness, I hope
there is not a God and an afterlife. I wouldn’t like to think that all the
people who have gone before and all those who are coming after will
know my business.”

“I imagine they’ll be too worried about their own business to worry
about yours.”

“Yes, you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. But think of this: if the
people who died can see how the people who live carry on, they must
spend eternity regretting their own propriety or spend it horrified at
what they see. Either way, it doesn’t lend itself to a contented
hereafter.”

“The painting you did of Helen…?”

“Mrs Harrison.”

“Yes.”

“What about it?”

“I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Not Helen, in that pose. And
she was pregnant. Did you know she was pregnant?”

“Yes. That was the urgency. Getting it finished before she started
to…show. It was nonsense, really. I mean, how long did she think it
would take?”

“I couldn’t pose like that.”

“Shyness is all about lacking self-confidence and it is only for the
moment. If you see your doctor, for instance, you might die of
embarrassment the first time, but afterwards it is of no consequence.
And in any case, Mrs Harrison was proud of her body. Self-confidence
was never an issue. She was posing for herself, I think.”

“How did it happen? Did she just say paint me like this?”
“Yes, she told me from the start what she wanted.”

“You must have been shocked.”

“It was an unusual request and I imagine photographers are used to
it, but…shocked is not the word I’d use. My only concern was whether
I could do it justice. You might not believe it but I have a reputation to
consider.”

“What do you suppose happened to her?”

“The police asked me that very question but in such matters I’m no
expert. If it were just Mrs Harrison my guess would be that she’d gone
off with the devil who’d led her to the club but now these other women
have gone missing, it does make you wonder. Perhaps the police
should get someone to retrace her steps. I think they call it a
reconstruction, to jog the public memory. They can give out one of
those special numbers for the public to call. That might do the trick. Of
course, whoever took her place would have to dress in the same
clothes. They could get an idea of what she looked like from the
painting.”

“She wasn’t wearing many clothes in that.”

“I admit the dress didn’t cover much but you could still get an idea
of the style and colour.”

“They might have difficulty getting someone to dress quite like that
and, the BBC might have a problem in filming it.”

“The watershed. I understand that anything can go out after the nine
o’clock news.”

“The nine o’clock finished some time ago.”

“Well, I never. No wonder the country has gone to the dogs.”
A little later he said, “One more sitting will do it.”

“Is that all?” There was anxiety in her voice.

Before she left, her mood still subdued, she said, “I’m sorry I’ve
been a pain today. I’m afraid I have a lot in common with Helen. You
see, this morning my test proved positive too!”

She was clutching at straws, watching his reaction or lack of it. But
it was a good move. And devious too.

From Paul’s spyhole in the cracked wall there was a flicker of
movement. He was back from the shops, errands complete. He was
crouching beneath the stairs again, spying, watching and listening to
every word.

They needed the mannequin’s clothes.

Laura squealed, “Look! Mr Lawrence, he’s stuck hair on the
dummy. He’s given her a hairy fanny!”

Mr Lawrence glanced down at the offending fleece. The barber’s
missing hair came to mind. Funny how, if you waited long enough,
things fell into place.

Paul looked a treat, although at the moment, because of the hair, a
little embarrassed. Laura had been to work with her make-up and
turned him into the model in the window. His skin was lightened and
his cheeks glowed with blusher, his blue-grey eyes defined by mascara
and blue shadow and his lips were bright cherry-red. Full at the best of
times they were now rather kissable. He wore the model’s auburn wig
of short bobbed hair. The striking thing was his body. In the matching
set he was almost perfect. Only his chest let him down and that needed
filling with cotton wool. But they needed that for Mr Lawrence’s
padding so they used tissues. He hobbled in and turned over his right
high heel.

For Luscious Laura and Mr Lawrence, keeping a straight face was
difficult.

Holding his sides and whimpering, Mr Lawrence suggested,
“You’ll be all right so long as you keep still.”

“I’ve shaved his legs,” Laura said enthusiastically. “What do you
think?”

Mr Lawrence squeaked, “I think he’s beautiful.” And then he could
hold it no longer. He coughed a dozen times to hide his laughter and
that started a coughing fit.

“I don’t feel very beautiful. I feel like a dickhead. This isn’t going
to work, Mr Lawrence.”

It wasn’t easy but Mr Lawrence managed to compose himself. He
said, “Have faith, dear boy.”

“I’m losing it quickly, Mr Lawrence, the faith. I’m going down
bank fast, and dressed like this isn’t helping.”

“You look fine, Paul, just fine. Now stop worrying and try to
concentrate.”

“I’ll try.”

Laura turned to Mr Lawrence. “Right then, it’s your turn now.” She
glanced at her watch. “And we’re running out of time.”

Laura was enjoying herself. In a sense, with them playing the parts,
she’d become the director. Power was a powerful emotion. An
aphrodisiac, some old cowboy had said, and he wasn’t talking about
pork scratchings.

In the window, blinking red then green, it was hot beneath the padded
suit of Father Christmas, and sweat trickled across his chest like some
fast little insect. The cotton wool beard was giving him trouble too and
loose strands made his nose twitch. He needed to scratch at every
nerve and yet he dared not move. Paul was rigid. Mr Lawrence could
see him from the corner of his eye. He looked better in green. The
ballerinas were dark shapes and yet they seemed more life-like than
Paul. From her hiding place behind the counter came the sounds of
Laura’s heavy breathing.

“I can’t ever remember being so close to Father Christmas,” Paul
said. “He never came to our house.”

“Hush now.”

They stood for fifteen minutes but it seemed like an hour. Adrenalin
was rushing through them. Their bodies

began to ache. Mr Lawrence’s knees began to give. He was thinking
that perhaps Paul had been right, after all, and this wasn’t such a good
idea. But it was too late. A grotesque shadow was at the window.
Even though Mr Lawrence had only seen him in the dark, he
seemed bigger than before, six feet and more with an egg-shaped head
on a bull-neck. His shoulders were huge and his thick arms were long,
apelike. Here was the missing link, without a doubt.

The trusty brass bell didn’t ring for it had been taped up. Instead, it
clanked a single reluctant clank as the door opened. And another as the
door closed. He was in. The feeling of danger was incredible. Mr
Lawrence’s head was bursting with the rush and pressure knots bulged
across his brow. The shadow moved across the shop. Thudding
footfalls left the air vibrating.

From her hiding place behind the counter, Laura, in her deepest
voice, called, “Pesst! Pesst!”

“Paul, is that you?”

“Pesst! Pesst!”

“Stop fucking around. You’re frightening me. You know I never
liked the fucking dark.”

His back was to them. A huge burning red back.

From the window Paul silently turned. And without a whisper Mr
Lawrence turned also, and from his bag of Christmas gifts he produced
a long heavy wrench. It was Chrome-plated and glinted green and then
red and reflected their faces glistening like cooking meat.

Mr Lawrence made the first blow, on top of the huge head. Shaped
like a puffin’s beak the point of the wrench cracked a hole. Grunting
like a pig the man half-turned and saw Paul’s attack. He saw a woman
in black suspenders leaping forward. Gangling arms and legs and a
high heel that had turned over half-way toward him.

“Fuck me!” he said, too stunned to take evasive action.

He watched a serrated bread knife disappear into his side, just
below the ribs. He grabbed out and held Paul by the throat. A terrifying
growl filled the room. Mr Lawrence hit him again with the wrench and
only then did he go over but he took Paul with him. The back of the
man’s head caved in under another blow and then, after a shudder that
seemed to shake the room, he lay still.

Paul struggled from beneath him, shaken and bruised and covered
in blood. Laura appeared from behind the counter.

“Golly,” she said. “Golleeey!”

With no time to lose, Mr Lawrence directed, “Help me get him into
the studio. Quickly.”

“Is he dead?” she asked.

“Of course he’s dead,” Paul said nervously. “Half his brain is on the
floor.”

“I thought you were going to frighten him.”

Mr Lawrence answered, “I think we did that.”

“But you’ve killed him. It’s murder.”

“It’s self-preservation. There’s a difference. The law allows us to
use reasonable force nowadays, unless you’re a farmer, that is, and
there are two thugs trying to rob you.”

It took the three of them to wrap the body in Clingfilm and drag it
into the studio and even so, they still left a long red skid mark. Mr
Lawrence said, “Help me to drag him down the cellar steps.”
Laura said, “I didn’t know you had a cellar.”

“Not many people do.”

“I did, Mr Lawrence,” Paul said. “The kozzers spent an awful lot of
time down there.”

A curtain concealed the cellar door.

“It stinks,” Paul uttered as the door opened to the dark dangerous
steps where cobwebs hung in streamers. “The coppers mentioned the
smell. They were right.”

“It’s the dead cats. When they’re alive they get in through the
pavement grating and find themselves trapped.”

“They might have been the cats we heard crying…like babies.”
“Yes, you might be right.”

Laura stepped back in disgust. “It smells like dead bodies. I’m not
going down there.”

“We can manage. It’s downhill. Grab his shoulders, Paul.”
They negotiated the steep narrow flight of concrete steps that in
parts were worn away and crumbling, down between the thick walls of
brick that had never seen the light of day, through a decaying archway
at the bottom to the black earth beyond.