I Watson - Director's cut

She had said, “Yes, I liked it too. You caught her expression just right.”

“Which expression was that?”

“The one on her face.”

“Of course.”

When she walked from the shop the cream pleats of her skirt swayed gently with each step. The cloth, tight on her boyish behind, clung to her every move. The old brass bell rang out her exit and the cold air rushed in and he shivered even though in his chest there was something beginning to beat again.

He made a decision. It would be Madras tonight, after the pub. The girl had left him with the curious flavour of India.

Much later, when he ordered, he was still thinking about her. “Chicken Madras with Sudan One, Para red, Orange Two, Rhodamine B and red chalk dust.”

“Ahhh! You are speaking of illegal additives, isn’t it? That is a very fine English joke, Sir.” The waiter leant forward and in a conspiratorial tone added, “You will be noticing that I am serving the salt in these very small dishes. That is because somebody has stolen all my salt-cellars, isn’t it?”

Once a week he closed the shop at noon. His usual custom was to have lunch at The British then go off to spend his hard-earned, Brown-taxed pound, but the woman was due for her first session and that meant everything was going to be hurried. Still, it meant a change to the routine: shop first and then lunch.

The way women change your life. A little flash of the eyes, a beguiling smile, a hint of coyness… The colonel was right. They should come with a health warning.

Beyond The British, perhaps a hundred yards or so, was Robot City, a supermarket owned by one of the country's richest families but it didn't sell much kosher food. Maybe they didn't shop in their own shops. Maybe they knew something. In Robot City, with its forty tills and plastic merit cards that kept a note of what you ate and how many times you defecated – assuming that you used the average seven point four squares of Andrex a time – the robots shopped. They shopped for buy-one-and-get-one-free and nutritionally balanced diets containing all the additives and chemicals that were absolutely safe for human consumption.

As he paused by the fish counter he wondered whether the fish farmed around Sellafield tasted any different, perhaps hotter, and whether one day they might leap from the Irish Sea as a ready-cooked meal.

Most of the chippies had been taken over by the Chinese and maybe that was the reason the fish and chips never tasted as good as they did in the old days. Even so, it was beginning to make sense. There was, after all, a lot of salt used on the chips.

In the vast superstore he checked out the new Colline collection of cropped trousers which were ideal for the beginning of pregnancy but could also be worn right through to the ninth month. They were made of poplin, which would gently expand to fit the shape of the eighthmonth figure. They even had one-piece swimsuits for expectant mums that came with lined gussets. They had maternity nighties and bras with efficient support and briefs made of supple elastic. They even had creams and lotions to eliminate stretch-marks. It was marvellous what was on offer nowadays.

But it was a pity about the fish and chips.

Sid the Nerve, Nervous Sid, was in The British. He watched Mr Lawrence walk in and then said miserably, “It’s funny how life turns out.”

Mr Lawrence regarded him for a moment and said, “Yes, you’re right.” He deposited his heavy goods in an alcove and sighed relief and rubbed his hands together in an attempt to regain some circulation, although, it might also have been in anticipation for it was lunch-time. A pub lunch-time. Real gravy and cholesterol you could taste and pellets of sweet corn and molested tomatoes with everything. Pub cooking cooked by fat housewives with aprons tied around their bristly armpits was the cornerstone of Darwinian theory. They'd been growing families on it since life began without a bottle of Filippo Berio in sight

– tit first and then lard the old-fashioned way.

He asked the girl behind the bar, “Tell me, my dear, do you peel the carrots?”

She rested her chin on her hands that were spread on the bar and looked up out of doleful eyes. Behind her the reflection of her tanned thighs and trim behind slid around the curve of a thousand bottles. A magnificent sight and a stirring thought to go with the pub food. Life would have to go some to get better than this. Her lips toyed with a dead smile and she said, “Not personally, Sir. I serve the drinks as you can see, but we always wash and peel all our fruit and veg. Why do you ask?”

“There are more chemicals in the skin of a supermarket carrot than they’ve got on the shelves in Boots.”

She nodded her fascination and said, “How interesting.”

In the background Roger crossed his arms, braced his legs and beamed her a smile that she must have felt on the back of her head. Mr Lawrence said, “I’ll have the beef curry please, with rice. No chips.”

“That’s an excellent choice, Sir. Would you like a drink with your order?”

“Yes, I think so. Would the water that comes with my scotch be mineral water or…?”

Her eyes grew. He had never seen such honesty in a pair of fluttering eyes. “Our mineral water comes all the way from Scotland, Sir, from a place called Dounreay…”

Albert and the colonel nodded to acknowledge him. They didn't smile. Rasher flicked him a sideways flick of the eyes. He didn't smile or nod. He tilted. His two minders rushed to stand him upright again. Nervous Sid oozed up to him. Short and thin he melted on to a bar stool while Mr Lawrence waited for his drink. He was West Indian and wracked by shakes. Perhaps Parkinson's shakes. He shook a ring under Mr Lawrence's nose. A valuable ring, he told him, which he could have for twenty pounds. Five pounds was his last offer. Five pounds and the knowledge that Albert wouldn't get it.

The last bit was tempting.

Albert's eyes sparkled mischievously. “How are you getting on with young Paul?”

Mr Lawrence said, “It's cold enough to snow out there.”

Albert put his nose in the air and returned his attention to the colonel.

Mr Lawrence could have told him that he hadn't seen much of Paul, that the lad had gone out at six last night and hadn't returned until the early hours. But his room had been transformed. He'd been shopping. God knows how he got his money or, come to that, the shops to open at that time of night. His wardrobe was filled with a selection of jackets and jeans and slip-on shoes, all with designer labels. He’d got himself a TV, DVD recorder and converter box. He'd spent the whole of the morning rigging a dish and running cable. He was stocking an awful lot of gear for such a short stay. Seeing that he was something of a handyman Mr Lawrence asked him to run a cable to the shop window.

“A warm Christmassy light on the display of bronze ballerinas might look nice.”

“No problem, Mr Lawrence. Leave it to me. I'm the man, see?” He'd gone out again just before Mr Lawrence left for the supermarket and Mr Lawrence took a peep into his room. It wasn't nosiness or anything like that for the door had been left open. There was a cardboard box full of baby things, Pampers and Huggies with their price tags still attached, Milton, rattles, counting blocks, teddy bears and baby-growers. And a whole bunch of baby-wipes. But the lad was proving quite useful. Mr Lawrence could have told Albert all that.

“Noticed the police were out in force last night, raiding the flats,” Albert commented.

The colonel asked, “What were they looking for?”

“Missing women.”

“Oh,” Mr Lawrence said, absently. “Did they find any?”

“Plenty of women," Albert sniffed. “But none of them missing.” “All this business,” Nervous Sid said. “Missing women, and the two that were attacked, just around the corner, man, it's turning brother against brother. We should all learn to kiss and cuddle like they do on the football pitches. All this trouble is no good, bad for the digestion. You can feel the tension out there. It's not good.”